


Where The Magic Goes

by Carcosa



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Angst, Co-parenting Ciri, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Geraskier, Happy Ending, Istredd is annoying, Lambert is the same as always, M/M, Modern UK setting, Monster of the Week, Multi, One Big Happy Family, Polyamory, Spooky holiday cottage, The Witcher Secret Santa, Yennskier, Yenralt, geraskefer, gratuitous use of flashbacks, yenskier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:15:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28292226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carcosa/pseuds/Carcosa
Summary: As his Witcher's Path takes him to the rain-soaked streets of London, there are three people that Geralt is destined to find.One purple-eyed paediatrician with paranormal powers. One sweet-natured stepdaughter with very special skills. And a seemingly untouchable musician to complicate all of Geralt's innermost desires.Life is hard for a witcher. But with their help, Geralt strives to be a good father.And this year, all Ciri wants for Christmas is for her whole family to be by her side. But with unexpectedly dangerous monsters all around, can Geralt protect the people he loves and keep them safe from harm? Can Yen find what she still craves? And can Jaskier ever feel worthy enough within Geralt's magical destiny to be secure by his side?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 22
Kudos: 41
Collections: The Witcher Secret Santa 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, I’ve written this fic for the 2020 Tumblr Witcher Secret Santa for @lotsofquestionslimitedanswers
> 
> It’s already finished (although I might still tart up the last chapter a bit) and weighs in at about 26K words, so I’ll be posting it up here on AO3 in separate chapters.
> 
> I don’t think there’s anything problematic in terms of content: some sweary language and some brief mentions of mild sexual imagery (no smut though), and also some mild violence – so I’ve rated it ‘Mature’ to be on the safe side, but if anyone thinks I should add any tag warnings then please give me a shout!

**Prologue**

The clothes were bloody, no matter how hard she rubbed them on that rough old stone.

Whatever she did, big dark stains remained in the moonlight, marring the white linen – and the icy loch water only tore through the holes pierced in the fine fabric whenever she tried to rinse it clean. 

Until with a cry of despair, her hands fell weak at their scrubbing.

The garment hung still in the water to billow as she let it sink, ghost-like, and the strange sight of it made her cease her singing and stare at it with wide wet eyes.

The shape it took was almost that of a man's torso – almost that of its absent owner, whose body lay in the cold earth far off to the south.

But might this clothing call its owner back to the place where he belonged? Could he return to her, here and now – and take up his once-white shirt to wear again?

Maybe if she wished hard enough, she could will it to be so.

And so she held her breath and waited in silence, hoping any minute to hear the crunch of footsteps treading down the rocky hillside track behind her spot on the shoreline.

She waited awhile, but nothing came. Even though she wished with all her might, she heard nothing but the sound of silence falling full behind her. 

No one had come here. And no one had answered her wish.

She was all alone by the silent loch water, and all alone here she would remain. He wasn’t returning. Not now – and not ever again.

Unless.

They said that those who could sing sweet enough could summon the fairies to come – summon them and request their favour. And those with the fairies’ favour could see beyond the veil and into other worlds. And maybe in other worlds she might see him again.

Maybe that was what she could do, even if she couldn’t wash the blood from his clothes.

She could sing.

And so the young woman closed her eyes, and sang a sad song that she’d once heard her mother’s mother recite on the day that the ground had opened up for the men from her own poor village.

" _The flowers of the forest are all withered away."_

A lament.

_"The prime of our land all lie cold in the clay."_

And beneath her closed eyes, the depths of the loch were waiting for her – holding the rippling stained shirt of the dead man close, until those ripples became a whisper on the waves, and that whisper became a voice on the wind, and the voice became a song in her heart – a song that enveloped the singer in its own revolving harmonies as the dark loch water rose up in a sheet and drenched even those little bluebells on the furthest side of the track.

Until with a sucking sound, the waters receded.

And long after their tides had sunk back to the place from whence they had came in darkness, the loch side fell silent once more to the vanished trace of human ears...

But yet, it would be said many years later, that when the full moon’s light gazed upon those dark waters and the air was still, the remnants of that woman’s song could once again be heard – singing of her doomed lover and the curse on her poor hilly land of clay.

And woe betide any mortal ears that might hear the sad song of the caoineag.

*** *** ***

**Many years later...**

“And after the shutters were pulled down in her face, she just... burst into tears. So of course, I had to take her straight to the pub for a medicinal beer before she hurt someone.”

From the back of the car came a dismissive laugh.

Behind the wheel, Geralt could practically sense the eye-roll radiating out from Yennefer's beautiful face as she stared back at her hapless ex-boyfriend – Istredd or something, wasn’t it?

Yen had lots of stories about him. He’d gone to the same university as her and they’d met in first year halls – and then proceeded to have some on-off fling for the next half decade. He was part of Yen’s network of old university friends, and so Ciri had spent quite a bit of time around him as a child.

Before Yen had decided that her romantic interests lay elsewhere, of course.

“That doesn’t sound like me, over-reacting to that sad old secretary’s attempts to downgrade my essay.”

“You said you wanted to curse her.”

“Lies.”

“You said you hoped she died in a fire, and that you would happily be the one to set her alight.”

Yennefer smiled.

“Perhaps I would have been doing the student body a favour.”

“Yeah, you probably would have been voted in as president of the student union afterwards. All your fellow medics would have backed you. Do you remember that bird who won it in our third year? When the sports centre burned down? She had all those telekinetic powers. What was her name again – Carrie something...? ”

Geralt tuned out of the conversation as the traffic on the motorway thickened up ahead.

It would be like this for hours – the two of them reminiscing about their student gossip and bitching about all the lecturers they’d hated. And in Yennefer’s case at least, that was quite an extensive list of grudges and grievances that were carefully curated for wheeling out on nostalgic occasions just such as this.

He glanced at the empty seat beside him and sighed. They were not far from Oxford now – and Jaskier had promised him that he’d be ready and waiting for their pick-up at his term-time address – although Geralt knew the man well enough to know that this extravagant claim would be outrageously far from the truth.

Not that he minded.

The need to escape from this backseat conversation and see his old friend’s familiar face again was growing by the minute, and an opportunity to stretch his legs before the next stage of the journey would be most welcome.

Jaskier could be absolutely relied upon for tardiness.

And sure enough, after fighting through traffic and into the dreamy medieval spires of Oxford city centre, Geralt parked up beside Jaskier’s flat and pressed the buzzer – only to be met with a stream of apologies at the other end.

“Oh shit, is that the time? Sorry Geralt, I just got out the shower! Why don’t you all come up for a nice cup of tea while I get changed. I’ll just be five minutes, I promise...”

Geralt beckoned to Yennefer and Istredd to get out of the car, and the pair of them followed him through the main door and up the stairwell.

The doorway into Jaskier’s flat was already hanging open in invitation – blasting out music to a deserted hallway, so Geralt just strutted right inside, as familiar with the layout as he was with Jaskier himself.

And in the middle of the bedroom, with only a blue fluffy towel around his hips, Jaskier stood dancing in front of the mirror – rubbing cream from a miniature pot under his eyes and belting out some show tune to the blare of bouncy saxophones from the speakers by the door.

With a wince, Geralt pulled the plug from the sound system, and in the mirror – those sunny blue eyes met his own and widened.

“Ah, Geralt!”

Jaskier almost dropped the cream in his excitement to throw himself at his witcher, and Geralt was enveloped with the cloying scents of shampoo and cologne that the musician always wore – and by the cheerful warmth that shone from his friend whenever they were reunited together.

It had been three weeks since they’d parted this time – an interval of loss that once would have been determinedly unremarked upon by them both. But no longer. Not now Geralt could hold in his hands the soft sincerity of the other man’s embrace and allow himself to finally accept what it meant to both of them. 

After all these long years of friendship.

And after the past six months of something much sweeter than friendship.

For Jaskier was breathless already, planting teasing little kisses on Geralt’s mouth until there was nothing to do but take the musician’s head in his hands to hold him still enough to kiss him as deeply as Geralt needed to reassure himself that it was all still real between them.

Jaskier pulled away with a glint in his eye.

“Why Geralt, hasn’t Yen been looking after you? Don’t tell me that you _missed_ me these last few weeks?”

The witcher only grunted.

“It’s... good to see you, Jaskier.”

The musician ran his hand down Geralt’s back, and let his voice murmur soft in his friend’s ear.

“And would you like to see a bit more of me? Before we get in the car? I’m sure we can be quick, and it’s been weeks since I last – ”

Geralt kissed him back with a smile, silencing this admittedly appealing train of thought before the musician could get his claws truly in.

“Yen and Istredd are waiting in the living room, Jaskier. There's no time. Put some clothes on and finish your packing, and hold that thought until we make it into Scotland. If they ever even let a shameless thing like you over the border, that is.”

Jaskier stuck his tongue out and slid out of Geralt’s grip.

“Fine then, be like that. If you want to stay all chaste and pure then at least be useful and go and make me a brew. You do remember how I _like_ it, don’t you witcher?”

“With three sugars too sickly and over milky, bard – just like you. Now get changed and hurry up, or we’ll be looking for this cottage in the dark and if we run into trouble you’ll be left as an offering to the banshees.”

Jaskier scoffed and turned to get changed, and Geralt fought against his baser urges enough to leave the man and return to Yennefer.

She was in the kitchen with Istredd, stirring four cups of tea already made to her friends’ exact specifications.

Yen could be absolutely relied upon for competence.

He smiled and put a hand on her waist, leaning in to kiss her cheek.

“Thanks, Yen. Our lord host and master-bard has already summoned his refreshment.”

A light came into her purple eyes at that.

“Oh, I have no doubt. I’ll go and take this to our Lord Lettenhove right away – and see if I can’t speed him up with his packing.”

Geralt watched her make her way towards Jaskier’s room with two cups of tea, and fought the desire to run right after her.

Instead he nodded politely at Istredd, who was gazing around at the spice rack in the kitchen corner with open curiosity. And to be fair, it was a rather impressive collection: Jaskier’s students at the university were well aware of their professor’s enthusiasm for cookery, and many brought him herbs and spices from their own countries when they returned to his music classes each autumn.

Everyone loved Professor Pankratz. 

Geralt cleared his throat.

“He likes to cook – Jaskier, I mean. He’s very good at it. Our Christmas dinner is in safe hands.”

Istredd nodded.

“So I’ve heard. I’m looking forward to it. I’m very grateful, you know – for the invitation. As you’re probably aware, the friends I was going to spend Christmas with have come down sick, with chickenpox – so Ciri invited me to spend the time with her. I hope you don’t think I’m... gatecrashing your family holiday.”

Geralt frowned. Had it been that obvious that this was exactly what he had been thinking?

“Hmm. No. Of course not. Ciri has invited you. She sees you as part of her family. So you are – a part of her family.”

Istredd was listening intently, and at the mention of the girl, he smiled.

“Yes, Ciri and Yen did live with me for a while, Geralt. Ciri’s a lovely girl. You and Yen have raised her so well, and I’m glad your daughter still remembers me with kindness.”

Geralt grunted in the affirmative.

He didn’t really want to be having this conversation – not here. Whatever Istredd and Yen had ever had was in the past, and if Ciri had chosen to extend the offer of a place at the Christmas country cottage to her erstwhile uncle, then that was up to her.

Geralt would do nothing to spoil the occasion for Ciri. Even if Istredd was nothing but spare baggage, in his own eyes.

He tried to think of something to change the topic, aware of the sound of giggling coming from Jaskier’s bedroom.

Perhaps Yen had been less willing than he had been to escape from their lover’s grasping hands.

But before he could begin to speak, Istredd got in there first. As ever.

“So where is Ciri meeting us then? She’s in Scotland now, isn’t she?”

Geralt nodded.

“She’s studying at Edinburgh University. Her girlfriend is driving her to this cottage tomorrow, on Christmas Eve. The two of them should be there by lunchtime, and then later in the afternoon...”

From Jaskier’s bedroom, he heard the distinct sound of a tea cup shattering on the floor. Followed by yet more giggling.

He shook his head.

“And then later in the afternoon, my foster father and brothers should make it up. They’re busy on a job right now – an infestation just outside Manchester. But they’re coming too.”

Istredd’s icy blue eyes flashed with interest.

“They’re all witchers like you, aren’t they?”

Geralt nodded.

“I learned all I know from Vesemir. He's spent his whole life training witchers in the Wolf School. He knows everything about monsters.”

“And what’s the most dangerous monster you’ve killed then?”

Geralt resisted the temptation to roll his eyes at this. It was the same predictable question that everyone asked him when they learned he was a witcher. And the real answer came just as automatically.

“It was a man in London. Followed Jaskier out of the pub where he worked – the one I used to go to on Northcote Road, and attacked him with a knife. I was there, on my way home. The man was high on drugs, and holding a knife to Jaskier’s throat, and I knew if I got anything wrong...”

He trailed off, remembering the scene well enough.

He’d barely known Jaskier at that point. The musician was just a friendly face who talked and flirted with him in the pub when he’d go in and sit alone, new in town and short of contracts. Until that night, when fate had put him there to save the musician’s life – and allow him to find an unexpected friend into the bargain.

For after disarming the attacker, he’d escorted Jaskier straight home, and been invited inside with a tearful plea – the pub musician lived alone and needed a shoulder to cry on. But when Jaskier had found out that Geralt was almost penniless and sleeping on the sofas of other witchers, he’d insisted that Geralt move in to his spare room right away. All for a tiny, implausibly small rent that had made Geralt both blush with shame and burst with gratitude.

That impossible signature of confused feelings that Jaskier inspired in him. It had been there right from the start.

And for most of the next fifteen years, they’d remained living together as housemates. As the most trusted of confidantes, even after Jaskier was bitten by a wyvern hatchling that had snuck home in Geralt's bag after a particularly draining hunt. As loyal conspirators, even after Geralt had begun his torrid affair with the purple-eyed doctor who'd saved Jaskier's life from the poisonous wyvern bite. And as best friends, even as Geralt and Yennefer moved in together and legally adopted Ciri as their daughter – leaving Jaskier alone with no shoulder to cry on this time round.

Until just six months ago, when Yen had finally tired of their “pathetic man-pining”, and made some rather _interesting_ propositions to them both. She'd visited Jaskier at his Oxford address, ensnared him in her scheme, then set up a meeting with Geralt. She'd set them both up good and proper, as competent in this impossible mission as in everything else she did.

He felt the smile spreading across his face – and the pleasures of memories too hot to think of in front of someone as cold as Istredd.

He changed the subject.

“And you – Yen tells me you’re an archaeologist. What’s the best thing you’ve ever dug up?”

The man laughed pointedly.

“Oh, that hoary old question again! It’s what everyone asks when they find out I’m an archaeologist. And if I may say, Geralt – it’s based on quite a misunderstanding. What we archaeologists gather is information. Information from the soil, from the ground – from all the traces of seeds and bones and pollen in the mud. We’re not treasure hunters, you know. It’s not like in the films.”

Geralt nodded, allowing the man to continue with his sermons uninterrupted. What on earth were Yen and Jaskier even doing in there?

“But to answer your question as you no doubt intended, Geralt – I’d say the best thing I’ve ever found comes from the site that I’m working on just now, in central London. We recently uncovered the burials of several gladiators from the Romano-British amphitheatre, and one of them – ”

From the bedroom came a shriek of laughter, followed by a smothered cry.

_“Fucking hell, Jask!”_

And Geralt nodded to Istredd curtly.

“Just a second. I’m going to check on how the _packing_ is going.”

He left his tea on the kitchen counter, and strutted back into Jaskier’s bedroom to confront his two wayward lovers. Honestly, it had been Yen who’d make such a fuss about leaving on time, and here she was...

... sitting on the bed sipping tea, and watching Jaskier cavorting around in a woman’s frock and high-heeled stilettos.

What the fuck?

“What the fuck, Jaskier?”

The musician stopped and gave a twirl.

“Oh hi, Geralt. I was just showing Yen the outfit I wore to the St Cecilia’s Day concert at Mansfield College. What do you think?”

The witcher studied the puffball skirt covering Jaskier’s hairy legs and frowned in confusion.

“It’s... _a_ _dress._ Are you planning on sitting in the car like that up the M6?”

Jaskier kicked the broken shards of tea cup under the bed and shrugged.

“This is a genuine piece of Jean Paul Gaultier couture, Geralt. I’m not sitting with it in the car and creasing up the taffeta. What kind of beast are you?”

On the bed, Yen only smirked.

“He looks like a caged beast to me, Jask. Maybe we should get going. We’ve left him alone long enough with Istredd, and it’s a slow drive to the Highlands from here.”

And so with Yennefer’s assistance, Jaskier’s overstuffed bag was soon packed to bursting point and loaded into the boot of the car – and the witcher wasted no time in shepherding the three of them out of the flat and into the vehicle, eager now to start closing the distance between Oxford and seeing Ciri in Scotland.

Geralt let them chatter away together as he hit the motorway – Yen made all the introductions while Jaskier affected charm and academic respectability, in between stuffing sweeties into his mouth from a paper bag he kept offering around. It let Geralt keep his eyes on the road and his mind on the terrain they were passing into.

The monsters of the North of England were much the same as those that threatened the South, but Scotland was a law unto itself and he’d had little professional experience in those wilder parts. No doubt Ciri would have a few good stories to tell – she’d been witchering on the weekends on the outskirts of Edinburgh, and had recently slain several _baobhan sith_ who’d been attacking young men in the Pentland hills.

Even though she’d chosen to study medicine and follow in her mother’s footsteps as a doctor, she was determined to keep her father’s profession alive in her work.

Geralt couldn’t have been more proud of her.

The weather turned colder the further north they drove, with dustings of snow on the Pennines as they neared Manchester.

“Say Geralt, didn’t you say Vesemir was working round here? Some wyvern hunt in Wythenshawe?”

Jaskier was pointing to something in the distance, as if he recognised the locations. And maybe he did – the musician had spent plenty of time travelling the country, playing at pub gigs and concert halls alike before settling down into comfortable academia.

Geralt had accompanied him on his trips to many of those locations. Or had it been Jaskier following him around on his witchering trips? Looking back, it was hard to tell who had been following who.

“That’s right. They’ll have their work cut out for the next few days – Eskel said there was fifty mature adults all roosting in the cellars of some ruined abbey. Who knows how long they’d been gathering there?”

From the back, Istredd stirred with interest.

“I heard about that from a friend of mine. She was doing the building survey for the local council, her and the other archaeologist went down to the cellars – and saw the wyverns there, all sleeping in the darkness.”

Yen snorted beside him.

“It’s a good thing they were sleeping. I saw a wyvern bite once – and that was from a young one, with only its baby teeth in place. It’s horrible to think what fifty adults could do.”

Geralt grunted in agreement, mindful of the scene.

“Vesemir knows all about it. They’ll have it sorted in no time. The only thing that might delay them is the weather – I hear we’re in for a ton of snow, and it could make the roads tricky.”

Jaskier laughed beside him.

“Oh, Geralt! I’m sure the Scots have snow-ploughs too! You worry too much.”

“Hmm. The cottage that Ciri booked is in the Highlands, Jask. It’s mountainous there.”

“It’s on the shores of Loch Lomond, at sea level – and barely thirty-five miles away from the nearest Versace store, Geralt. Which I am _so_ going to by the way on Boxing Day.”

From the back of the car, Yen chuckled.

“I’ll come with you, Jask. I'll need a bit of Boxing Day retail therapy to walk off your cooking.”

Geralt rolled his eyes.

“Well the two of you can drive yourselves then. I’m planning on doing nothing but sitting around and talking to Ciri. Maybe we’ll take a walk out to the pub down the road. Maybe we’ll do some fishing on the loch. It’ll be nice and peaceful. Just what Christmas ought to be.”

Istredd cocked his head to the side, obviously following their conversation.

“Aren’t you worried we’ll run into monsters up there though? Aren’t the lochs of Scotland supposed to be teeming with them?”

Geralt caught the cold blue eyes of Yen’s former lover in the rear view mirror.

People like Istredd worked outdoors – as he did himself. An archaeologist probably understood more about the dangers of the landscape they were entering into than did a doctor or a musician.

And Geralt nodded slowly.

“They used to be. I’m not sure it’s like that nowadays. But the glens and lochs of that country cover some wild and remote places, and I know for a fact that you’d all do well to watch your step when you’re outdoors up there. Especially after nightfall.”

To his surprise, he felt Jaskier’s hand on his knee.

“You know we will, Geralt. You worry too much about us. Nobody’s going to be running around the loch in the dark – we’ll all be too busy listening to your monster stories around the fireside or... doing _other_ things in the dark. Fun things. _Just the three of us.”_

And from the back of the car Yennefer shook her head with a smile.

“We’ll be in a popular tourist spot in the company of yourself – and another four witchers, Geralt. We’ll be safer than we would be on the streets of London! I think our bard is right: you worry too much.”

He snorted, and shook his head fondly. The two of them had a point – and Ciri wouldn’t have booked a cottage anywhere where there would be any real danger for them.

He’d downloaded the location details onto his phone, and his almanac app would have all the reports of any monster alerts issued by Scottish witchers in the past few hundred years. He would read them when they crossed the border, and Yen took over the driving. And everything would be fine.

But all the same, he was glad for the revolver in his pocket with the silver bullets. And the potions that he’d packed in his rucksack beside his trusted twin swords.

He was a witcher – and he knew better than to underestimate the dangers that could appear out of the middle of nowhere, even as they drew closer to those barren shores...


	2. Chapter 2

**One dark and stormy night twenty years previously**

The rain was falling fast in the winter streets of London.

It was an ugly night, enough even that the Northcote Road by Clapham Junction was deserted at 10pm.

The neon signs of takeaways and tanning salons glittered gaudily on the jet black pavements, with smokers lingering in misery outside pubs – their shoulders hunched against the dreary weather, only to turn their backs against him as he walked past.

But the freezing rain didn't bother the witcher. Dressed in his dark leathers, prowling down the street towards the couch he called home – courtesy of Lambert's living room beside the railway line, he had worries enough to consume his mind.

He'd been in The Bell, Book and Candle earlier on, seeking to avoid returning to Lambert's for as long as possible. Seeking to sit in the shadows and away from the flickering candlelight in the eccentric goth pub he'd taken to frequenting.

Seeking out a friendly face in the dark night. 

There was one such face in the pub – a musician. That was why he went there most evenings, drawn to the flames like a moth searching for the moon.

For this was London. And friendly faces were in short supply.

Londoners kept their heads down whenever he walked by – even without the rain. They stared, and they avoided him.

They were afraid of him. Afraid of _witchers._

A short scuffling sound down an alleyway prickled in his ear as he walked past, and the hairs stood on the back of his neck and down his shoulders.

For no reason at all, anxiety was clutching at his heart. Compelling him to retrace his steps and peer down the alleyway, uncertain as to what he was even doing.

And then he saw the man. The _men._

It was the musician from the pub. The one with the friendly face.

He was pushed against the wall with a knife held against his throat. Allowing his pockets to be raked through by the thief. He was trembling and afraid.

His attacker was trembling too, and stinking of the poison-tainted sweat of the strung-out addict. Such thieves were not in control of their minds nor their bodies, and such cowards always took the path of least resistance in life. 

And how easy it would be for such a thief to slit his victim's throat after the robbery was complete. After all, dead men could tell no tales and a corpse could not slow down his pursuit of the drug he craved beyond all reason or sanity...

Anger flared in the witcher's mind.

And within split seconds he was marching towards the thief – lifting him right off his feet and away from the pub musician, whose sweet and cheerful voice Geralt knew so well – and throwing the miserable wretch full-force into a nearby set of bins.

The musician stared at him in awe, spluttering with shock.

"You – _you..."_

The musician's eyes were blue. Geralt knew this, because he'd memorised every line of the musician's face the first time they'd met. But in the orange glow of the streetlights, he could not see the colour clearly. Only how bright the man's irises were. How his dark pupils – pinprick sharp against those pale irises – suddenly dilated as they stared at him in wonder and surprise.

Jaskier. That was the man's name. 

That's what he'd told Geralt, one of those long lonely nights ago when he'd sat himself down at Geralt's table after his guitar set was finished.

Jaskier's blue eyes had held a tidal force on him right from the start. 

He remembered that start well enough. Remembered Jaskier's bright eyes as he'd smiled at him in greeting, helping himself to a chair in the darkened pub corner weeks before.

"Well, hello there, my friend. My _audience_. Are you here for the music or the banter? I can do both you see, and plenty else on the side. I do love to service what my audience most deeply _desires."_

Geralt had blinked, torn between annoyance at the man's interruption of his main evening brood, and astonishment at the man's brazen self confidence. At his lack of _fear._

The man's blue eyes had studied him long and intently, not even bothering to hide their fascination with him behind their thick lashes.

And by the end of the evening, Geralt had wondered whether he should do what Jaskier had suggested with a wink and a smile, and take the musician out for dinner at the weekend.

But where would they go? How could he invite a man of obviously expensive tastes like Jaskier back to his brother's grotty couch for a good time?

As much as he wanted too, Geralt had only grunted back in the negative, and exited the pub as fast as he could. 

And although Jaskier had smiled and chatted to him whenever they had crossed paths since that night, after that first meeting Geralt had never again been propositioned.

But now under the streetlight, the musician stared at him again with obvious need. Licked his lips. And Geralt knew without a shadow of a doubt that if Jaskier were to proposition him again then he would not decline the offer.

He regretted ever declining it the first time around.

But there were more important things to first find out.

"Jaskier, are you hurt?"

The man shook his head, and his eyes fell to where the thief was surreptitiously getting to his feet by the bins.

"Oh, Geralt – "

It was a half warning, half sob, and without thinking what he was doing the witcher left his limping quarry to scurry away down the alleyway with the other vermin. 

Instead, he gripped Jaskier's shoulders and wrapped the musician in a hug.

And Jaskier really did sob then. He buried his face on Geralt's shoulder and his whole body shook.

Geralt hadn't wanted to let him go. So he'd walked the musician home, and taken him up on the offer of a night cap. He'd tried to explain about Lambert's sofa, about his poverty and lack of means in the big city – about why he'd so foolishly spurned Jaskier's offer of a date. And maybe Jaskier himself had misunderstood. Maybe not. But when Jaskier had offered him a room in his house, at nothing but a peppercorn rent, Geralt could not refuse his generosity.

"Let me do something for you, Geralt. I can't do much to repay you. I'm just a humble bard, but I do own this house. My parents bought it for me years ago – back when they still hoped I'd be something other than the massive disappointment that I am to them... But it still belongs to me. And it has a spare room. And I'd feel so much safer with you in the house. You can have the room for a tenner a week. What do you say?"

Geralt hadn't been able to say anything. He'd just nodded dumbly, wondering why he felt such excitement and such dread at the prospect of living with this man he barely even knew.

So just like that, the two of them had become housemates. And the thing about housemates was – housemates did not get involved with each other romantically. Everyone knew that. The dogs on the street knew that. Even Geralt of Rivia with his rudimentary grasp of human etiquette knew that.

And so he'd wrapped his arms around Jaskier where they sat on his antique settee, and inhaled the clean smell of his hair as the musician had finally relaxed and fallen asleep against his chest.

But he had been careful, so very careful, to discard any romantic imaginings that he'd once felt about the musician. Nothing good could possibly come from spurning the good grace he'd been given – free lodgings in London and a friend that he grew more attached to with each passing day. They were a team, him and Jaskier, and although they both dated plenty of other people, they both always found their way back to each other.

To sitting on that antique settee together at night and talking about everything in the world. Everything except the one topic that they both knew was out of bounds.

And so it had been for fifteen years. 

Until the purple eyes of Yennefer Vengerberg had turned up unannounced and with a glance shattered that fragile understanding forever...

It had been a Monday. Always the worst day of the week, and this Monday had been the worst he'd ever known.

Jaskier was dying. Geralt could see it. Could not stop it. 

He was going to have to _watch_ Jaskier die.

Even though it had only been a baby, the wyvern that had snuck into his rucksack on the hunt had more than enough poison in its fangs to kill a grown man. Enough that when it crawled out of the bag in the living room – just as Jaskier walked past, gesticulating happily about the Duchess de Loxley's sister's massive breasts – Geralt had been under no illusions about his bard's prognosis.

For all that poison was currently circulating around Jaskier's bloodstream from the bite on his ankle, slowing his heartbeat with every passing moment and steadily destroying his ability to breathe.

The staff in the hospital ward at St Bart's had done their best.

But nobody expected recovery from such an injury. The wyvern poison had a magical quality that was no match for the shiny surgical equipment of a modern-day hospital.

The consultant had told him that nothing could be done. And they hadn't even tried to save Jaskier – only to make him comfortable as his death slowly approached. As the musician slipped into panicked unconsciousness, clutching at Geralt's hand as if he still believed his witcher could save him from this suffocating fate.

Geralt had put his fist through the wall after Jaskier's eyes closed, breaking the plaster and earning a startled jump from the young nurse brushing down the musician's fevered face.

She had stared at Jaskier and frowned, and then turned to Geralt with a troubled look in her eyes.

"Your friend here. There's someone I know, someone I could fetch to see him."

Geralt had shaken his head. His voice had been hoarse.

"He doesn't need a priest."

The nurse had just stared.

"She's not a priest. She's a witch. She has powers. I'm not supposed to tell the patients, because she can't always help them, but I could ask her if –"

"Yes. Do it. Fetch her. Do it now. _Please."_

And so the nurse had scurried off, and Geralt had given up his pacing and sat on the uncomfortable chair beside his best friend's deathbed – clutching at Jaskier's clammy hand and begging him to hold on.

And that was how she'd found them, when she'd first walked into their lives. Dressed in the sterile uniform of a doctor – a paediatrician, Geralt would later learn – and with glossy black hair framing her face.

And what a face it was. 

She hadn't seemed impressed at all, and had stood there sniffing – eyeing the pair of them steadily and cocking her head to the side.

"Your boyfriend's been bitten by a wyvern, correct?"

Geralt shook his head.

"We're just friends."

The woman smirked.

"But he _has_ been bitten by a wyvern?"

Geralt nodded, disliking and mistrusting at once the amusement in those dazzling purple eyes.

The doctor considered.

"Then I'm sorry for your loss. There's nothing I can do here, not unless – "

_NO!_

Geralt felt himself recoil inwards, unwilling and unable to listen to this. Jaskier was going to die, and it would all be his fault. He'd killed his best friend, he'd never get to tell Jaskier what he'd always wanted to say, never get to –

But the woman was looking at him strangely.

And curiously, like tiny electric shockwaves dancing behind his eyes, he thought he saw her words. Thought he felt the sight of her question, written in big red letters inside his brain...

_Can you hear me like this?_

Geralt had nodded, and the woman had raised her eyebrows – and immediately sat down in the seat on Jaskier's opposite side.

"Well witcher, perhaps your friend is in luck. If you can hear me through your thoughts, then I may be able to heal him – but I'll need your help."

Geralt had nodded, feeling his eyes shining.

"Anything. I'll do anything for him."

The woman nodded, her purple eyes filled with knowing.

"Yes. I think you will. But quickly, give me your hand. I might be able to use your _feelings_ for him to counteract the poison's magic."

And so ignoring the implications in the woman's words, Geralt had offered his hand to the witch. 

She'd ripped Jaskier's shirt down the middle with a ferocity unexpected in a woman so small and pretty, and had pressed her other palm into the skin of Jaskier's chest. Over his heart. And then Geralt had felt the room begin to spin all around him.

Visions appeared before his eyes.

Horrible visions. 

Writhing insects, and nests of wyverns crawling and squeezing into their nests, seeking out human victims, biting and venomous...

And visions more chaotic.

Jaskier's face, panicked and terrified, pleading with Geralt to save him, to set him free, to love him, to hold him and kiss him –

And then the pair of them both, writhing together in a state of undress, breathless and desperate –

He heard the purple-eyed woman laugh, and realised she too could see these visions. She was standing beside him now, watching him.

And she was beautiful. So mesmerisingly, awesomely beautiful.

Her eyes flashed violet with knowledge, and her voice was soft like honey.

"Just friends?"

He'd stared deep into those purple eyes, magnetic and endless, and had felt himself falling, falling into her...

And awoken in her arms, gasping and shuddering, and feeling weaker than he'd ever felt before in his life.

Her hand had stroked at his face, cool and strong as it grazed his cheek.

"Your friend will live, witcher. Your feelings for him were strong enough. And now, you need to rest."

He was collapsed in his chair beside Jaskier, with the witch sitting on the bed, rubbing at Geralt's temples with a strange softness in her eyes.

"Jaskier – he's well?"

She nodded.

"He'll wake up tomorrow, fully healed."

Geralt had swallowed.

"Then... I am in your debt. Whatever you want. Name your price."

The purple eyes shone with amusement.

"You'll do anything?"

Geralt had nodded.

"I know magic has a price. Whatever you want, I'll pay it."

The witch had smiled.

"I know you will. And as for what I want, perhaps a drink with me this Friday night would be... _interesting_. It's not every day I meet someone who can hear me like you do."

_And those who can hear me are seldom as attractive as you._

The woman blinked, and Geralt wondered briefly if she'd meant for him to hear her thoughts that time.

He smiled, surprised at her interest.

"Friday is good. My name is Geralt. Geralt of Rivia."

She offered him her hand to shake.

"Dr Vengerberg. But you can call me Yen."

And as he'd stared into those purple eyes, and fought the urge to kiss her there and then – this beautiful, magical woman who'd saved Jaskier's life and hypnotised him completely with nothing but her eyes – he'd known that something was changing.

Something in his life _had_ changed. And life was never going to be the same again, not now he'd found this woman.

And after he'd arrived at Jaskier's empty house all alone that night, he'd wondered what it would feel like to allow himself to love someone. To love someone who wasn't Jaskier. To love someone else – who could love him back. 

And the eyes he'd dreamt of that night as he'd fallen asleep had been an exotic shade of purple, not sad and blue...


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so this chapter gets the gang up to Scotland and introduces some monster backstory. I've added the odd phrase in Scottish Gaelic here and there in italics but it's explained/translated where needed for the plot. I know all the Witcher canon is very Polish but (apart from a cherry vodka-fueled trip to Krakow once for a Polish pal of mine's wedding), I'm not so familiar with Slavic culture so I don't want to balls it up and get it wrong! That's why I've set this Modern AU in the UK, as it's just easier for me to write coming from where I do :)

As the landscape thrust up into hills on all sides, the temperature plummeted.

The sun had set before they’d even cleared Carlisle, and the English motorway traffic was stuttered with Christmas queues already – slowing their progress until the clusters of towns grew distant and the sleet began to smear across the bleary windscreen.

But soon the road grew dark ahead – save for the scarlet tail lights of the lonely cars they followed through the wilds outside.

Soon after they’d crossed the border into Scotland, Geralt had swung into a service station to buy a coffee for Yen as she offered a gentle kiss to Jaskier and dutifully took the wheel – “Geralt needs a break and in no way do I trust you to drive up there without getting us totally lost, professor”, but to the witcher’s quiet relief Jaskier had suggested that the two travelling companions switch places as well – “unless of course you want to massage our witcher’s stiff shoulders in the back there, Istredd?”

And so Geralt had reclined in the backseat beside Jaskier – who had produced a celebratory Beaujolais and was proceeding to neck it straight from the bottle – offering it around to Istredd and Geralt as if they were fellow schoolboys on a camping expedition.

As they drove further and the bottle depleted, Jaskier's fingers found his and entwined around them in the dark. And after all the many hours spent driving, it was tempting for Geralt to close his eyes now and let the warm doziness of the wine overtake his wary senses... until the mobile phone in his jacket launched into an impromptu riff of _Sweet Child o’ Mine_. 

He’d set the ringtone especially for one person in particular, so he’d know immediately that it was she who was calling.

“Hello Ciri, how’s Edinburgh?”

The reception on the line crackled somewhat.

“It’s very snowy, Geralt. Are you on the road yet?”

“Hmm. We picked up Istredd and Jaskier, and I drove us over the border. Yen’s driving now. We should be at this place soon.”

“Okay, great. You have the directions I sent you, don’t you?”

“Mmm. Yen has them.”

“Even better! I spoke to the owner earlier – everything should be set up for you to arrive and the key to the cottage has been left at the bottom of the bucket of the well. It should be easy to find in the front garden.”

Ignoring Jaskier’s startled glance at the word ‘well’, Geralt allowed himself a smile.

“It sounds perfect, Ciri. I’ll let you know when we get in. When will we see you tomorrow?”

“We’ll be there by lunchtime. Call me if the cottage needs anything picking up from the shops.”

Geralt paused.

“Just bring yourself, Ciri. And remember to pack your weapons and potions. It always pays for a witcher to be careful, even on her holidays.”

The young woman laughed.

“Geralt, I always do! See you tomorrow.”

“Good night, Ciri.”

He stowed the phone back in his jacket and ignored his friend's pout.

"Uh, sorry Geralt... but I couldn't help but overhear your daughter's talk of a _well_?"

"You heard well then. It's a rustic cottage. Welcome to the countryside, Jaskier."

"But... there will be indoor plumbing, won't there?"

Geralt shrugged noncommittally, enjoying the squeak in Jaskier's voice.

"Relax, bard. _You worry too much_."

From up in front, Yen interrupted.

"Is this the loch? I think we're nearly here."

The passengers followed her gaze out into the darkness. The cloud cover had been chased away by a full moon, revealing a black pool of liquid lying to the side of a narrow track way, with snow-covered mountains ghosting the edges of vision.

By daylight the view must be stunning, but the silver and black starkness gave a haunted and cold quality to all that lay under the shadow of night.

"Hmm. It's _a_ loch, anyway. If it's Loch Lomond, then Ciri said the cottage was at the end of the road on the eastern shore."

"Which way's the eastern shore?"

"Follow the sign to Sallochy."

Yen veered the car right at a junction, obeying Geralt's instruction.

The track narrowed and climbed a sharp bend that rose out of nowhere in the darkness outside. Geralt found himself flung against Jaskier as Yen manhandled the car around the hairpin turn with a curse on her lips.

"Oof, Geralt! Is that a cry for affection or are you just trying to kill me?"

"I think Yen is trying to kill us all, Jaskier. And she might just succeed if she doesn't slow down on these icy roads."

"Watch it, witcher. Or you can finish the journey on foot through all that snow."

Geralt grunted and released his grip on Jaskier's ribcage. He peered into the scenery, trying to use his heightened senses and intuition to see through the night.

There was not snow enough out there that walking would be a problem. The shores around the water seemed relatively clear. For now, at least – but who knew how much snow was still to fall? It could be possible to get quite cut off out here, so far away from the bright lights of London.

In the front seat, Istredd pointed to something looming up ahead in the main beam headlights.

"Is that... is _that_ a cottage?"

Yen slowed the car and stared open mouthed.

"I don't know, Istredd. You're the archaeologist. Is it a cottage? Or is it what you'd call an ancient ruin?"

Geralt felt Jaskier grip his knee in the dark.

"Oh please, tell me that's _not_ where we're staying tonight."

The witcher just shrugged.

"The road ends here. And there's a wishing well in the garden."

And that was not all. 

The snow-covered expanse of the garden also came with a freakishly large snowman – it stood at least eight feet tall in height – with glittering eyes of coal and a squinty grin bearing down on them where they sheltered in the car.

But even that was nothing compared to the house itself. 

Built of old stone blocks with watchful black gaps where the large windows were fitted, the place gave off an air of brooding contemplation, as if its glassy eyes were sizing up these new visitors and wondering just how easily they'd fit inside the hidden crevasses of its cellar walls, never to see the light of day again.

"Urgh. Then I _wish_ that nothing climbs out of that well to devour us in our sleep tonight! You should check it out Geralt, give it the witcher once-over, you know? Otherwise I'm not going to be able to sleep a wink in bed or – "

Geralt took Jaskier's hand in his and squeezed, knowing by now that the simple gesture was the easiest way to hush the musician's nervous babbling.

If only he'd known that fact twenty years ago. The bountiful silence alone would have made it worth chancing a move on Jaskier right away.

"It's fine, I'll check it. It's just an old house, that's all. I thought you _liked_ history?"

"Yes, Geralt. I like history. I like things that are _historical_. Not haunted witch-houses in the frozen wilderness!"

Yen scoffed.

"What's the matter, professor? Do you think the snowman might come to life and creep round the house while we're all asleep? You shouldn't worry – you'll have Geralt and me to protect you. But Istredd... ha. Maybe you should salt the floor and dial up the heating in your room."

"Yeah. If my room even _has_ heating. That place looks old enough to be a listed building. And those places are always freezing. It's too expensive to get planning permission to do them up."

The doctor gave an apathetic shrug at her company's complaints.

"Well boys, it's been a long drive. And creepy snowman or not, I deserve some wine. So let's get into that frozen witch-house and get the lights on – and then one of you can have the honour of pouring me a drink. Unless you want me to ask the snowman to do it instead?"

"Hmm. Ciri said the house key was in the well bucket. Why don't you have a look with me, bard? And you two get the car unloaded."

"Are you joking? What about my Jimmy Choos?"

But Geralt was already opening the door and stepping out onto the frozen crunch of icy snow. It wasn't deep – no more than an inch – but the air hung thick with the metallic scent of more snow yet to come. 

With any luck it would hold off until the rest of them arrived tomorrow.

He trod heavily into the garden and stopped dead in his tracks.

His medallion. Was it his imagination, or had it pulsed?

He listened intently, stock still. Searching for another vibration on his skin – and there was something – something right at the edge of his spectrum of sensing...

It sounded to his ears like... someone singing _._

And it was coming from right behind the house – echoing across the dark water where the loch lurked out of sight, hidden from view, shapeless in his mind and somehow _waiting_...

There was a musical sigh on the icy wind.

_For the flowers of the forest are all withered away, and the –_

But at the hand on his shoulder (a warm hand, lovingly familiar to his senses), the fleet feeling vanished as soon as it had come.

"Geralt. Is everything alright?"

He spun around and met his oldest friend's bright blue eyes – watching him with clear concern, although Jaskier couldn't help but smile as Geralt grabbed his hand to pull him closer.

"Jaskier. Did you hear anything? Just now?"

The musician attempted a laugh.

"You mean, apart from our favourite doctor scolding Istredd for his non-compliance?"

The witcher shook his head, keeping his face serious.

"You weren't... _singing_ just now?"

Jaskier placed a hand on his hip and pouted.

"If I had been, you would know _all_ about it, witcher."

Geralt frowned, and scanned the grounds. He could see Yennefer and Istredd bickering over the baggage – an argument that the heavily-laden Istredd was evidently losing – but nothing else moved in the shadows of the headlights. Everything was still, and quiet – outwith their little circle of buzzing humanity.

The silence of the dark hemmed them in from every side.

Jaskier cleared his throat.

"I could do, you know – if you want. I could sing some aria and smash all the – "

A surge of alarm spread through the witcher. He pulled his friend closer, with an iron grip around Jaskier's wrist, heedless of whether he was crushing the musician.

"No – don't. Not here. Not outside."

His friend's eyes were wide with sudden understanding.

" _Oh._ You think there's something – "

"I don't know. I just... I want to keep you safe."

His grip loosened on Jaskier's wrist, allowing the musician to break his hand free from his grasp – only for those slender fingers to stroke against his cheek and run through his silver hair instead.

"My witcher. _You always do_."

Geralt relaxed into Jaskier's embrace, touched by the note of affection in his lover's voice that quickly turned to a soft groan when Geralt nuzzled a kiss to his throat. Only for the pair of them to be disturbed by the approaching exasperation in their other partner's voice.

"Have you two got that key yet? Or are you planning on putting on a porn show out here for the local wildlife?"

Yen came marching up with her designer Gucci handbag, while Istredd staggered past under the weight of everyone's luggage.

She wrapped her arms round their waists, pulling them both towards herself with a glint in her purple eyes.

"Honestly, I can't leave you two alone for one second. Whispering sweet nothings to each other while the rest of us do all the hard work!"

Geralt nodded at Istredd, grunting his way to the front door.

"So I see."

But Jaskier grabbed back at Yen's hip, and pulled her close with a grin.

"Sounds like someone is _jealous_. Maybe we should get a room, Geralt. And invite our esteemed Dr Vengerberg in for the night."

Yen smiled and graciously allowed her cheek to be kissed in homage.

"Please do, Professor Pankratz. I'm freezing my arse off out here."

"Well, in that case – let me warm it up for you while our mutual colleague sees to his witchering duties."

Grumbling, Geralt hurried over to the well and retrieved the key from the bucket. It had been left within easy reach, but he peered down into the dark depths of the well in any case.

His medallion was silent.

And tossing the key to Yennefer, he checked around the garden while his friends unlocked the front door and loaded the rest of their bags into the house.

Soon yellow light was flowing through those large windows and casting blue shadows on the snowy lawn, and the witcher's golden eyes were drawn to the brightness inside – where he could see Istredd preparing a fire beneath a chimney breast in what must be the living room – while Yen and Jaskier fought over glasses and a corkscrew in the open-plan kitchen behind him.

He sighed, trying to force all worries from his conscious mind.

Whatever ghosts lurked out here, out here they could remain. So long as they did not venture close enough to disturb his friends, then he had no argument with any of them.

With a last glance around the silent garden, the witcher strode over the threshold and entered the house, eyes flicking over the unknown Gaelic greeting painted in blue letters on a white plaque by the front door.

_Ceud mìle fàilte dhan Taigh na Seinneadair_

Inside, the house was warm and airy. The heating had obviously been left on for them, and the festive scent of cinnamon and orange peel wafted through the hallway – mixed with the piney scent of wood that arose from the floorboards and walls themselves.

Everything was lined in varnished wood, and hung with medieval-style tapestries and paintings. Seascapes and nature scenes, fabulous beasts and mythical stories – the taste was quite historical, if not a little macabre in its execution.

He closed and locked the door behind him – a city habit that lingered even if no other living souls could be found for miles. And then over the creaky floorboards he went, making his way to his friends in the living room.

He was just in time to hear a wine bottle's uncorking, and the splashings of liquid into a glass.

He shook his head as Jaskier waved the bottle at him, seeing the surprise on his friend's face at his refusal.

Yen and Jaskier were more than capable of tackling the booze by themselves, and he wanted to keep his senses clear. At least until the other witchers arrived.

Something was out there, and it left a trace of worry in his mind.

He took in the luxuries of the room, scenting a richer resin coming from the large Christmas tree that perched on the corner bedecked by glowing fairy lights, just beside a piano – and the open grate of the chimney breast where Istredd was setting up the blocks of dried peat that would feed the fire.

Geralt watched as the man fished for matches by the peat pile, and strutted over with a wry smile.

With an outstretched hand, the sign of Igni soon had the flames licking at the peats. And those chilly blue eyes turned to him in surprise.

"I forgot you could do that. Thank you, witcher."

"Hmm."

The archaeologist stood and watched as the fire took hold.

"Maybe you can light the candles too."

Geralt stared.

"But there's electricity. You already switched the lights on."

Istredd turned to face him, his pale eyes lit up with the fireglow as it burned now in the grate.

"I have something to show you, and it will be better by candlelight. More impressive that way."

There was a smug tone in the archaeologist's voice that Geralt didn't much care for – but since when was that news?

"Oh? Should I have Jaskier serenade its big reveal with his guitar when you make the announcement?"

His attempt at humour sounded petty, and he instantly regretted his choice of words. But Istredd merely sniffed.

"Oh, I don't know. Perhaps your bard will compose a piece all by himself, when he sees what I have. He strikes me as a man who rather appreciates a good story."

The slight smile on the archaeologist's face was quietly enraging, and the insinuation of treachery – that his very own Jaskier would ever be charmed by anything that Istredd had to offer – was even worse.

Geralt kept his face neutral and managed a thin-lipped smile.

"Hmm. He appreciates all kinds of things. But he's a musician by trade, not a playwright."

And with his impeccable sense of timing, Jaskier choose that precise moment to call out from the kitchen.

"Geralt, you know how much I love a good story? Well, you've got to read the legend of this house!"

Unable to miss Istredd's grin, the witcher sighed in defeat.

"I'll light the candles on the way over."

And turning away from the fireplace, the witcher blasted a couple of big pillar candles arranged on the dining table, imagining with some satisfaction that the wicks were Istredd's grinning face.

In the kitchen Yen and Jaskier had huddled together with their hands entwined, gazing over a collection of brochures and booklets that lay scattered on the kitchen table. 

Without looking up, Jaskier beckoned him closer and wrapped an arm around Geralt's waist.

His blue eyes sparkled with excitement.

"Well, witcher. Turns out your instincts in the garden were correct. This house _is_ haunted. Haunted by a caoineag, as it turns out."

Geralt shook his head, hearing Istredd closing in on their little kitchen embrace. Was he ever going to get a moment's peace with his two lovers, or would the archaeologist follow them around all week like a bad smell?

"A _keun-yack,_ Jaskier?"

The musician nodded at the witcher's approximation of the Gaelic word.

"It's a type of ghost, Geralt. They're only found in Scotland. And only very rarely."

Yen laughed.

"Since when do you know more about the supernatural than a witcher?"

Jaskier shook his head.

"Oh, I don't. Not at all. But I _have_ heard of this. I learnt a song about one when I was studying the Celtic bardic traditions. It was an old – very old – Gaelic ballad about visitations from a ghostly lover. The caoineag is a singer, you see. She lures men to their doom with her beautiful siren song, and then drowns them in the lake where she lives."

Yen cocked her head to the side.

"Don't you mean _loch_ , professor?"

But Geralt could only frown. He stared down at the brochure that Jaskier was holding – a guide to the local history of the house by all accounts – and remembered the faint sound of singing he'd heard out in the garden.

Whatever he’d heard out there was real enough.

He picked the brochure up from the table and began to read aloud. The archaeologist should be armed with the full details of the house’s history too. 

After all, it would really spoil Ciri's festive fun if dear Uncle Istredd was found drowned by a vengeful spirit in the loch. People might get quite the wrong impression about Geralt's professional abilities.

The witcher sighed, and began to read aloud.

"Welcome to _Taigh na Seinneadair,_ the _House of the Singer_ , so named in honour of its original owner, Mairead MacFarlane, a well known local balladeer who drowned herself in the loch following her fiancé's execution at the hands of government forces in the bloody aftermath of the failed 1745 Jacobite uprising. It is said that after her death, the cold and broken heart of Mairead lingered on in the loch water until the fairies rendered her eternally into a _caoineag_ , a _weeper –_ a ghost whose sad song of lost love haunts these shores and brings with it an ominous message. For it is said that to hear Mairead's song predicts the imminent death of the heart's true love, just as the caoineag lost hers all those years ago."

Geralt stared at the brochure in silence for a moment, as if willing the words on the page to rearrange themselves into some kinder story.

And despite his earlier good humour, Jaskier gave a nervous laugh.

"So Geralt, when you said you heard singing outside... should our Yennefer here be worried?"

The doctor beside him scowled and jabbed her finger at his ribs.

"Only as much as you, _singer._ Or do you think hearing your rendition of _Fishmonger's Daughter_ would be enough to repel a ghost blessed with musical taste?"

"If anything my musical skills make me highly sought after by a wide array of supernatural beings, Yen – it's just that you were Geralt's _true love_ before I was, and so – "

"No, I was not! If you're trying to insinuate that Geralt – "

The witcher shook his head. 

"Yen, Jaskier – shut up. I didn't hear anyone singing. It was just an echo in my medallion, that's all. These types of ghosts – banshees and the like. If they sing at you, it's unmistakable."

Yen took a sip of her wine.

"So should we only venture outside with earplugs on? Is that the plan? Because I left mine at home in London."

Jaskier chuckled.

"You can borrow mine then. They were the first thing I packed – what with how loud you snore after drinking – "

The musician whimpered as Yen jabbed harder into his ribcage.

Geralt caught Istredd's eye and found the archaeologist raising his eyebrows at him in mock sympathy. 

The witcher cleared his throat.

"Listen, there's no danger from this. The caoineag is a type of banshee, and these spirits just warn of death – they don't attack humans. In fact, having one here may well protect these shores from more aggressive monsters moving in. Ciri has chosen this cottage wisely. You can trust in her judgement."

Jaskier grabbed at his wine glass with a frown.

"So it's just demonic snowmen and the ducking stool we have to worry about then. Assuming the locals get wind of the purple eyed witch that we smuggled over the border, that is. _"_

Yen's violet eyes rolled.

"Or how about I toss a coin to our caoineag and get her to sing a song for all three of you. A bit of peace and quiet up here would be just what this doctor ordered."

Istredd put his hands up at that one.

"Oh Yen. Surely I'm not one of – "

Geralt decided to intervene before things turned awkward.

"Istredd. Didn't you have something you wanted to show us? Some good story to tell us?"

The archaeologist clamped his mouth shut primly and nodded.

"Of course. I have something that I want your opinion on, Geralt. And yours, Yen. It's in my bag. Maybe we can reconvene by the fireside and turn off the lights, and then you can all see it the way it truly deserves to be seen, in the candlelight."

And with a self-satisfied smile, Istredd retreated to one of the bedrooms of the cottage, while Yen and Jaskier rose to turn off the main electric lighting – inexplicably interested in the promise of whatever Istredd was promising.

Geralt poured himself a glass of water from the kitchen sink and watched as Yen and Jaskier arranged themselves in a comfy couch near the fire. 

The only light that remained in the room was now a soft orange fireglow – along with pretty twinkling fairy lights on the Christmas tree.

He sipped on his water and studied the faces of his two lovers as the flickering light made their eyes sparkle. They both looked so beautiful, and he was struck by the realisation that this was their first ever festive event spent officially together.

He'd passed many a Christmas with Yen and Ciri, and Jaskier had sometimes even tagged along too – and then slept alone in the spare room, leaving Geralt to wonder helplessly what caused such hollow pain at such a happy time of year, when he had no reason for loneliness. 

But this year, it would all be so happily different.

This time, he'd be waking up on Christmas morning with both Yen and Jaskier beside him, and the rest of his family all around.

He was blessed. Truly. Even if Istredd was here.

Along with whatever weird trinket the archaeologist had dredged up from depths of London’s murky past...


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So now we've got everyone happily settled with a glass of wine, it's time to start shaking things up! And what better way to do that than by introducing some creepy artefact from a modern archaeological dig?? Ancient arcane sense of horror here we come.
> 
> Just to keep Geralt on his toes :)

The witcher finished his glass of water and smiled to himself.

Everyone he loved was either right here with him now, or would arrive here tomorrow, and there was nowhere else in the world right now that he would rather be, than in this frozen lochside cottage.

Yen met his gaze across the living room and smiled with intent. She wrapped her arms around Jaskier's shoulders, pulling him close to quieten his idle chattering and kiss his cheek – all the while staring at Geralt with those smouldering purple eyes.

And silenced by her affection, Jaskier followed her gaze across to Geralt, and seeing him standing in the kitchen, alone – the musician patted on the empty space on the couch beside him.

"Aren't you coming, witcher? There's room for one more beside us."

_Gladly. I would gladly follow you two anywhere._

And in his mind he sensed the texture of Yen's reply.

_Wherever you are is where we belong, Geralt._

He wondered briefly if he might share that thought with Jaskier too, when they were all alone in bed later. He was no good at talking about his emotions – not normally. But when the three of them were lying together, their blood running hot and their passions ablaze, he'd found there was very little he could keep to himself any longer. There was a world of joy to discover – just for the three of them – and the sweet anticipation of their togetherness made him ache for them both.

He smiled for them as he returned to them, and took the offered place beside Jaskier on the couch.

And with a smile, Yen released Jaskier from her embrace to allow him to rest his head under the crook of Geralt's neck, waiting for the witcher's hands to stroke through his hair as he knew it soothed both of them to do so.

The musician closed his eyes under the witcher's fingers and let his voice soften.

"Oh that's lovely, you have a gentle touch tonight Geralt. I've missed it."

"Hmm... Yeah."

And for a moment, there was nothing but the crackle of the flames and the sweet oily smell of the burning peats, until Yen shifted and stared at the doorway.

"What's this that Istredd's brought then? What did he tell you, Geralt?"

"I don't know. He said he had a good story, and something to show us."

The doctor snorted.

"Always so dramatic! I bet you it's a piece of rock from whatever dig he's working on. Or a bit of broken pottery. That pottery always got his pulse racing."

Jaskier stirred under Geralt's hand, his voice curious now.

"And did it get _your_ pulse racing, Yen?"

Geralt didn't even have to look to feel the heat of the sneer on Yennefer's face.

"What do you think, professor? Would it get _you_ juiced up?"

Jaskier considered.

"Depends what was being _done_ with it, I suppose. I'm pottery agnostic."

Yen shook her head.

"I'm sorry I even asked."

"But _rocks_ on the other hand. In Medieval brothels, do you know they used to – "

Istredd strutted in, leaving Geralt to wonder at whatever strange musing Jaskier had been about to offer up to the appalled ears of the universe.

But there was no more time to wonder about that.

There was something hidden in the archaeologist's hand. Something small.

Istredd took a seat across from their couch, on the other side of the fireplace, and studied his audience with a grin, checking they were paying him the attention he obviously felt his moment deserved.

"Well, now we're all seated here around the fire, I want to show you something I uncovered on my current excavation."

Geralt watched as the archaeologist opened his hand theatrically – revealing a small silver signet ring in the centre of his palm.

The witcher frowned.

"You said you were working in London somewhere? Where did you find that?"

Istredd smiled.

"Near Moorgate. Gresham Street. We've uncovered the site of the original Romano-British amphitheatre, and its gladiators' shrine to Mars."

Jaskier lifted his head to look at Istredd's trinket.

"So your ring is – what? Two thousand years old?"

The archaeologist leaned closer, and offered the ring to the musician – who leaned forward and stretched his slender fingers out to take it.

Some thrill of horror flashed inside the witcher's mind. And without any time to wonder why, Geralt reached out to snatch the silver ring before Jaskier could touch it.

The archaeologist laughed.

"It's not _my_ ring. Its owner was a gladiator. We excavated his grave, and this was found beside his finger bones – he was obviously buried wearing it."

The ring was cold to the touch.

And as Geralt looked, he could see an image shaped into its seal. An image of a horse. A horse with eight legs.

Jaskier gasped and dropped his hand.

"Do you mean that... that the gladiator was _killed_ while wearing it?"

Istredd shrugged.

"It's impossible to say, after all this time. The alluvial deposits around the Thames make the soils quite acidic, so there was little of the bones left to find. Not after two thousand years."

Yen chuckled.

"Oh come on, Istredd. You wouldn't have been able to tell even if the body was fresh! You don't know the cause of death, let alone what the gladiator was wearing when he died."

The archaeologist smiled.

"Well, yes and no, Yen. There are carvings on the inside of the ring. They're very faint, but they're very similar to others found on sacrificial burials from the same time period."

Jaskier's mouth fell open.

"Uh, _sacrificial_ – did you say? Like, as in, _human_ sacrifices?"

The archaeologist grinned, and Geralt did not like the way his white teeth flashed in the firelight at his friend's discomfort.

"Oh yes. It was a common practice in those times. People – usually young men – were offered as sacrifices to monsters and demons. The Romans thought it would propitiate the gods, and save the world from eternal evil."

Geralt shifted his weight so he could wrap his good arm – the arm that was free of the ring – comfortably around Jaskier's shoulder. 

His voice was gentle.

"That was before there were witchers, Jask. That world is gone now."

Yen leaned closer to them both and placed a hand on Jaskier's knee.

"Can I see what all the fuss is about?"

Reluctantly, Geralt extended the ring to her. Something about its coldness, about the shape of the demonic horse on the sigil – about the scratched runic symbols that he could see cut into the inside of the silver band – that something horrified him.

And yet his medallion was silent.

But his gut was insistent.

He clenched his fist around the ring just as Yen made to take it, and whipped his hand away. Taking the ring as far from both of his lovers as possible.

He didn't want either of them to touch it – this ring in which a corpse's fingers had rotted for centuries. And more – he didn't want the ring to feel the warmth of their living skin against its metallic coldness. For the creature embossed on the front should not stir at their touch, should know nothing about them...

It was safer that way.

Yen cocked her head to the side at his sudden withdrawal, but she said nothing.

The sharpness in her purple eyes spoke volumes on her behalf, even though he knew she did trust him – deep down. 

Deep down, she trusted him every bit as much as Jaskier did.

But she was curious, and so was her voice.

"What's wrong, witcher? Is your medallion having a moment?"

He shook his head, and stared down at the trinket.

"No. It's something else. But I don't like it, whatever it is."

Her voice was gentle.

"But I might be able to read the runes, Geralt."

In the warm light of the fire, Istredd's eyes shone with cold amusement.

"The whole dig team has had their hands all over that ring, Geralt. It's fine. It's quite safe."

"Hmm."

The archaeologist's words held little persuasive power. Not compared to the look in Yen's eyes as she held her hand out.

_Trust me, Geralt._

She would be offended if he refused. And if there was any danger, his medallion would surely have sensed it.

So with a scowl, he handed the signet ring to Yennefer.

The witch closed her eyes for a second, holding the ring close to her face while she gathered her thoughts – then opened her eyes wide to study the artefact.

She frowned.

"The scratchings inside the rim – they're definitely runes."

She raised her eyebrows at Istredd.

"But of course, you already knew that."

The archaeologist nodded.

"Yes. Ogham runes. An early type, from Ireland. But we can't read them."

The doctor smiled.

"That's because they're not Irish, Istredd. They're Nordic runes. And not just any runes. These are the Valannarætt, the ones reserved for magic and rituals."

Istredd looked thoughtful.

"Can you read them?"

Yen squinted.

"I recognise the two triangles. That one represents the moon. And the other one there, that looks like a horizontal 'H' – that's the hunter rune."

Istredd nodded.

"Perfect for a gladiator hunting men in the amphitheatre."

Geralt frowned.

"Why would a sacrificial victim be buried with a hunter rune?"

Istredd shrugged.

"Maybe it has something to do with the moon?"

Yen shook her head.

"I don't know. There is third rune too, see that double-headed arrow? But I don't know what it means."

She handed the silver ring back to Istredd, much to Geralt's relief. 

He squeezed a hand around Jaskier's shoulder, but even the musician seemed to relax now that the ring was withdrawn – enough to huff against Geralt's chest and grab Yen's empty hand.

"Well, that was very _interesting._ Thank you, Istredd. When I have nightmares about silver moon-horses tonight, I'll know just who to thank in the morning."

The archaeologist just stared entranced at the ring.

"I wonder..."

Geralt shook his head.

"You'll have to wonder later, Istredd – when you write your research paper. It's the night before Christmas Eve, and if it's gruesome stories you want then I suggest we hold off until Ciri and Lambert get here tomorrow night."

He could feel his face ease into a smile at the memories of the pair of them – each trying to outdo the other in tales of gore and guts. Until recently, Lambert usually always won – but now that Ciri was an experienced witcher herself, the odds were evening up.

Yen laughed, and downed the rest of her wine.

"Thanks for reminding me, Geralt. Tonight's the only night our dear lord will be able to sleep! Maybe we should take him to bed now so he doesn't spend all of Christmas Day as a grumpy grinch."

Jaskier shook his head against Geralt's chest.

"Oh please. If anyone's going to steal the Christmas tree baubles it's you, Yennefer. And yes. You absolutely _should_ take me bed."

The doctor took Jaskier's wine glass and downed the remnants in one.

"As you command, my Lord Lettenhove."

Jaskier chuckled and squeezed Yen's hand, pulling her face towards his for a kiss.

Istredd caught Geralt's eye with a raised brow.

The witcher just shrugged.

"His dad's a viscount. Somewhere out in Sussex."

"In East Anglia, darling. That's why we avoid Norwich like the plague."

"Hmm. I thought that was because your mad ex lived in Norwich."

Yen patted Jaskier's knee.

"Now, Geralt. If we had to avoid all of the professor's mad exes, we'd never be able to leave the house."

"Hmm. That's true."

Jaskier just laughed.

"I don't know. Geralt seems to be managing with your ex here, Yen. And the Countess de Stael lives in Winchester, I'll have you know."

Yen shook her head, while Istredd still stared at the ring, heedless of Jaskier's insinuation.

Geralt grinned.

"I think it's time for bed. Those phantom moon horses won't just haunt themselves."

Istredd nodded, barely bothering to nod at them.

"Goodnight then. If I hear the sounds of approaching snowmen in the night... I'll send them your way, witcher."

"Please do. But there might be some Shake n’ Vac under the sink just the same."

Geralt stood and offered one hand each to Yen and Jaskier, pulling them up off the couch and following hard on their heels into the bedroom they'd chosen while their witcher had been prowling the garden hunting for monsters.

They'd chosen their bedroom wisely.

The centrepiece of the room was a huge four-poster bed, draped with dark tartan curtains and blankets.

A chimney breast lay directly opposite the bed, as dark and cold now as the view from the wide window facing out to the black waters of the loch.

And at the sight of his glassy reflection Geralt stared, almost expecting to see some ghostly grey face flit past the window.

He shivered, and by the time the three of them had readied themselves for bed, he had not yet warmed up.

But luckily, he had Yen and Jaskier beside him to take care of that. And take care of it they did – leaving his mind far from any dark thoughts of monsters or demons. 

Until under the sheets, even as the snow ceased its falling outside and the moon shone out from behind the clouds, the witcher fell into a deep and peaceful sleep entwined with his lovers. 

And in the silent house, the silver moonlight cast shadows on all of them.

For in another room, something that lay on a cold window ledge was bathing in those moonbeams: something that had long lay hidden in the ground, buried from the sight of the silvery light and forgotten from the eyes of the world.

But now those silky moonbeams fell from the sky and shimmered wild off the surface of the dark water – and some of them also happened to catch upon the cold hard object on the window ledge, so that it shone bright and white with the full moon's light.

And somewhere, a doorway swung open once again, and plunging hoofbeats surged into a gallop, coming closer and closer to the sleeping house in the silent Scottish countryside...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NB: I used to work as a field archaeologist, and while the river deposits of the Thames around London can certainly be called 'alluvial', I am not sure they are acidic within the vicinity of Moorgate? I just made this up as an excuse for the poor bone preservation. And also - the Romans did not (at the time of their conquest of the province of Britannia) commit acts of religious human sacrifice. In matter of fact they looked down massively on the native Britons for (allegedly) doing just this and used it as a justification for the colonial subjugation of Britannia into the Pax Romana. So you know, I made that bit up too. Sorry Classicists and fellow history nerds!!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, we have an ancient agent of chaos unleashed for Geralt to deal with in the country cottage, but before he does that, I thought it might be fun to revisit some of Geralt’s emotional backstory. 
> 
> And then we can get back to the malevolent spirits that haunt Loch Lomond and Geralt’s heroic witchering!

**Eighteen months ago**

Moving day finally came.

It was the day before Ciri's official adoption papers came through, and Yen wanted the three of them all together for that big day – the day when the eighteen year old orphan girl finally became their legal ward. His and Yen's.

She'd been Yennefer's unofficial daughter for eight years, and part of Geralt's life for only four, but he loved the girl like his own already – for Ciri was so very easy to love – full of a sweet youthful guilelessness and determination to do her very best in whatever life threw at her.

Bold and fierce like Yen, but kind-hearted and generous like... like Jaskier.

Jaskier was helping him load up the car, babbling inanities in a forcedly cheerful pretence, not allowing Geralt to get a word in.

Geralt wanted to put his hands on Jaskier's shoulders and shake him. Hard.

But instead, he smiled thinly. And failed to meet his friend's eyes.

"Right that's the last of it, Geralt. You can be off now. Save me a piece of cake, for... for whenever I next see you."

"Hmm. It's only Hammersmith, Jask. It has a tube station and everything.”

"It's North London, Geralt! Right where the Duchess lives.”

Geralt shrugged at the pavement.

“Aren’t you two getting on?”

“Getting on?”

There was a sharp intake of breath from his friend.

“No, Geralt. We’re not getting on. Not since she found about me, her sister and the best man’s brother at that de Bourbon wedding – the two of them will have my balls for breakfast if they see me out in public! And I bet your girlfriend would love that."

Geralt frowned. He remembered Jaskier telling him about this scandal, now that he thought of it.

It had slipped his mind, in all his preparations for moving.

After all, what was yet another one of Jaskier’s ridiculous liaisons to him? They all began and ended in the same sordid way.

He sighed.

"But you will visit us? I would, I mean – _Ciri_ will want to see you. She loves your guitar lessons.”

Jaskier was silent. And then he grinned, far too brightly.

"Of course. Of course I'll visit you and your family, Geralt. Whenever you want me to be there, just call. If you're not too busy."

Geralt stared at his friend, heard and understood that Jaskier wasn't saying everything. But it was far too late for either of them to start talking honestly now. And Geralt had other responsibilities. He had a daughter to think of. Ciri was the one he needed to consider in his life now.

So he just nodded. He went to hug Jaskier, but the musician had already turned his back on him, and was walking back to his empty house. 

"Bye, Geralt."

Jaskier didn't turn around, and Geralt swallowed down the urge to chase after him. To spin him round, and throw his hands around the musician's shoulders and haul him back to their antique settee. To make him promise to visit – to visit every day and never be a stranger... to make Geralt's new house his own and be part of Geralt's new family for good.

But how could he? His new family home belonged to Yen and Ciri, and he couldn't give that away to anyone without their blessing. Not even Jaskier. Jaskier was just a friend. And that's all he could ever be.

They'd made that decision long ago with their silence. And every disastrous dalliance that Jaskier had made – with his pretty aristocratic ladies and his sophisticated men of the theatre – had cemented the validity of that decision in Geralt's mind. Every time Geralt had looked into Yennefer's purple eyes and felt the happiness of being needed by her and Ciri – creeping brambles and vines had wrapped further around the wall that him and Jaskier had built between themselves.

It was just a fossil now. What once could have been between them. And it was far better to let those sleeping dogs lie than pour petrol on that particular fire.

So Geralt had climbed into the car without a backwards glance, and driven away from Jaskier's street with his thoughts focused hard on Ciri and how happy the three of them would all be together.

Without Jaskier.

And it was weeks later – before he even heard the news – and then he only heard it from Ciri, who'd been rearranging her guitar lessons. Because apparently, those lessons were over now for good – for Jaskier had accepted a job in Oxford, and was leaving London that very same night.

Geralt wanted to phone him, to congratulate him. To talk to him. To check that he was okay. To ask why he was leaving town.

To ask him to come round.

He even got out his phone and brought up Jaskier's phone number. Stared at it in longing.

And with a sigh, he put his phone back in his pocket, and told himself he'd call later, after dinner.

But dinner was soon over, and later came and went, and he never did call his friend.

*** *** ***

Telling the tale to Ciri by the fireside later – with Yen and Jaskier sitting safely by his side and Istredd shaking his head with a mournful gaze – Geralt would remember the exact moment when the squeals of panic had made his eyes fly open in the darkness.

The noise had been coming from Istredd's room.

His first thought back then had been irritation, followed by a wry sense of amusement at hearing the archaeologist wailing for help – no doubt after stubbing his toe in the dark or waking from a bad dream about killer snowmen.

But then the words of the archaeologist had sunk in, and the witcher sat up in bed with a start.

Had Istredd said there was a _horse?_ In the _house?_

"... ah it's following me! _What do I do?"_

There was a sound of footsteps running down the wooden hallway floor, and something else then too – some clattering noise not far behind.

The door to the bedroom was flung open and slammed shut, and Istredd wasted no time in diving below the covers at the witcher's feet, disturbing his sleeping bedfellows in the process.

Jaskier mumbled drowsily, but Yen woke up with a groan and kicked out with her feet.

"Ow! Yen, stop it. There's a horse in my room! What should I do, Geralt?"

The witcher listened intently, hearing nothing in the darkness save for the heartbeats and breathing of the humans in his bed.

"Istredd? Is that you?"

"Yes, it's me! There's a horse in my room!"

The archaeologist's voice had a hysterical edge to it, but Yen was unfazed.

"Well go and give it a sugar cube and get back to sleep."

"No – I think it's a demon horse. Yen, it had glowing red eyes!"

The doctor laughed and rolled away.

"You were dreaming."

But the witcher was not so sure. The medallion around his neck was pulsing slowly.

Something magical had drawn close.

He knew the pistol with the silver-plated bullets was on the bedside table, and his steel sword was in the corner – within easy reach if he were to jump to his feet.

He left his weapons in those same places every night, as he had taught Ciri to do.

For who knew when a witcher would be called to arms?

Beside him, Jaskier stirred and reached out for him – grumbling softly when Geralt tried to extricate himself from his lover's stubborn clutches.

The witcher sighed. If there really was something out there, it was safer to have everyone awake.

He stroked a hand through the musician's hair and kept his voice soft.

"Jaskier, Yen. Wake up. I need you to do something for me."

Half asleep, Jaskier giggled.

"Ask us nicely, Geralt. Or Yen will put you across her knee and – "

"What is it, witcher? Did Istredd's horse come back?"

"It's real, Yen! It had red eyes! I think it's still out there..."

The archaeologist clambered up under the covers to the pillows, inching away from the open doorway and scrambling up between Geralt and Jaskier.

And Jaskier seemed to finally wake up.

"Uh, Istredd? Did Yen invite you into bed with us?"

"Not a chance, professor. I'd rather sleep with Valdo Marx."

Istredd tore his eyes away from the door to frown at Yen.

"Who's Valdo Marx?"

Jaskier snorted.

"Yes, _who_ indeed? Just some jumped-up talentless twat who – "

"Jaskier. Hush. I need you and Yen to wait here and stay quiet. Istredd says there's a demon horse in the house, and we're going to investigate."

The archaeologist spluttered in protest.

"But I'm no witcher! You don't need my help!"

"No. But I need you as _bait_ to keep Yen and Jaskier safe. There must be a reason it came to you. Did you play around with that ring?"

"No! I mean, not really. I left it out – by the window. Under the moonlight."

"Hmm. Very clever."

Yen sat up and stared at the doorway.

"Those runes. The moonlight could have activated them. Made them magical. Your medallion wouldn't have sensed them when you were holding the ring, Geralt. But now – "

Something shattered in the hallway, like plates breaking on the floor.

Jaskier's eyes widened.

"Uh, there really is something inside the house with us. What did you say it was, Istredd? An eight-legged demon horse?"

"It only had four legs from what I saw."

"Right. So we have a regular demonic horse trotting through our kitchen then? Sounds like another job for our heroic witcher and his brave bardic sidekick. Need a hand, Geralt?"

The witcher slunk out of the bed and collected his weapons.

"Change of plan, Istredd. You stay here. You too, Jaskier. None of you move from the bed, understand? I'll handle this."

The shadows seemed to lengthen as he padded barefoot over the cold wooden floorboards, wondering whether the element of surprise was even needed here. This opponent may not have come for a fight – Istredd would surely be dead by now if it had come seeking violence.

The silence thickened with every step he took closer towards Istredd’s bedroom door – hanging ajar in the cold moonlight.

With every step closer the air seemed to deaden, and a strange tingling headache filled the witcher's head.

Was there really a buzzing sound – or was he imagining it?

And in that single moment of doubt, a freezing gust of wind blew out from the gaping door and tore past him down the hallway.

His silver hair flew streaming in front of his eyes, and as he brushed it away he was just in time to turn and see the door to his own bedroom slam shut.

A chorus of wailing broke out from the three humans he'd left inside the room.

"Fuck! Yen? Jaskier?"

"Geralt, it's in here – the demon horse is in here!"

"Where's your stash of sweeties, Jas?"

Already flinging himself down the hall and at the door, he found the handle to be stuck fast. No matter how hard he twisted, the door wouldn't open.

"I ate them all in the car, Yen. Fuck, it's – look out!"

"Oh no!"

Until all of a sudden a silence fell inside the room – sudden and deep enough to make the witcher's skin crawl.

"Yen! Jaskier!"

There was no reply from inside, but the doorknob turned loose in his hand and Geralt half-staggered-half-fell inside the moonlit room.

There was no horse there to be seen.

There was no movement at all to be seen.

The three bodies of his friends lay still in the bed – their eyes closed and eyelids flickering as if caught inside some dream.

Some particularly vivid dream. 

Or some spell.

"Fuck."

The witcher stared at the three of them for a moment, then padded over to check they all lay comfortable.

He straightened Yen's head where she'd fallen asleep at a crooked angle, and brushed her hair away from Jaskier's face. Their skin was reassuringly warm, and the veins on their necks beat strong and steady – as did Istredd's.

Trying not to glare at the slumbering archaeologist whose foolishness had caused this problem, the witcher planted a kiss on Yennefer's forehead and another on Jaskier's cheek.

How to bring them all back safely, that was the question? And whatever had taken them?

There was only one thing to do.

He reached inside his trousers – still lying on the floor where Jaskier had removed and discarded them beside Yen's dress – and found his phone still intact in the pocket.

His foster father would know exactly what to do.

It took several rings before his call was answered, but the voice on the other end sounded sharp and clear as ever.

"Geralt, what's wrong?"

Vesemir understood this was no social call. A not unreasonable assumption to make at 3am, all things considered.

"I'm at the cottage, Vesemir. We've had a _visitation_. Took the shape of a horse: capable of telekinesis and transportation of souls. Seems to be tied to an ancient rune ring. Istredd brought it up with him from some dig in London."

"Istredd. Yennefer's ex?"

"Hmm."

"And has he been _transported_ , Geralt?"

The witcher sighed.

"Along with Yen and Jaskier."

"I see. A sure-fire way to ruin Ciri's Christmas party."

Geralt clenched his hand into a fist.

"Hmm."

"You'll be wanting all three of them back then."

"That _was_ the general idea. Any suggestions?"

There was silence on the other end while the old witcher considered.

"Do you have the ring?"

And within several seconds Geralt was standing in front of where it sat on Istredd's window ledge.

"I'm looking at it right now."

"Good. Don't touch it. Not yet. Tell me about these runes."

And so Geralt sketched out the details of everything he remembered of Yen and Istredd's conversation – the runes, the gladiator sacrifice – and the eight-legged horse sigil on the ring itself.

And Vesemir had sighed.

"It's a demonic psychopomp, Geralt. Sent by the runes to receive the soul of the dead gladiator and take him to the Hall of the Slain."

"To Valhalla? Is that where Yen and Jaskier are?"

"Unlikely. None of those three are warriors, Geralt. But you on the other hand are. And yet here you remain. The original spell was cast a long time ago, to receive the soul of the gladiator – and presumably it worked as intended, Geralt. And so this time, the runic spell was not seeking another hunter to transport."

"Well what was it seeking?"

The old witcher sighed.

"Who knows? These spells become corrupted over time, and you couldn't read the third rune. Most likely your friends fit the bill and have been taken to the other side – the magical landscape around the physical reality you're currently in."

"You mean they're in some alternate dimension? Another version of Loch Lomond in a different reality?"

"Not a different reality, Geralt. _This_ reality. But it's magical side. And so all the magical creatures, monsters and ghouls – all of them will be able to see your friends and do as they wish with them."

"Fuck.'

"Yes, Geralt. Fuck. You better go and get them. As quick as you can."

"And how do I do that?"

"Put the ring on. But put your weapons on first. You may well find they don't work as expected, but it's better than nothing."

"Great. Then how am I supposed to scare the monsters off? Tell them one of Lambert's jokes?"

Vesemir snorted.

"Use your initiative, Geralt. Think like a witcher. Guide your friends back into the cottage, and have them step back into their own bodies. They should wake up right as rain."

"Right. Time to go then."

"Good luck."

Seizing the ring, the witcher strode back into the bedroom and stared down at his sleeping lovers.

He wondered if Yen might hear him, if he focused on finding her mind.

_I said I would follow wherever you two went. And I meant it. Tell Jaskier I'm coming for you. I love you and I'm coming for you both._

There was no reply, but he hadn't really expected there to be. But she would know, wherever she was right now. And she wouldn't even have to tell Jaskier. Because he would know too.

They would both be counting on him.

And he would follow either of them into hell itself to keep them safe from harm.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt has his mission to save his beloved Yen and Jaskier (and the hapless Istredd too, I suppose) from the monsters of Loch Lomond – if he can only find them first, that is. But what if violence and magic alone are not enough to save the day and slay all the demons??
> 
> Just to warn you, this is quite a long chapter, so make sure you’re sitting down comfortably with a nice cup of tea (or some festive spirits)!

Geralt took a last glance at his sleeping lovers on the bed, and fought a final urge to try and shake them both awake.

He knew it wouldn’t work. Those vital parts of Yen and Jaskier were somewhere else right now, and there was only one way to bring them back to full waking consciousness.

And so with a heavy sigh, the witcher slipped the ring over his index finger, and watched as the contours of the world took on a strange and magical glow...

He followed the hazy rippling patterns outside, amazed to see the dark night lit up in colourful swirls, dazzlingly bright against the moonlit snows.

It was as if a rainbow veil of the aurora borealis had descended from the Northern skies, and wrapped itself around every living being in the clear bright night – it glowed around each tree, each shrub, and traced patterns where hares and owls tore through the ragged birch trees shining silver in the moonlight.

"Beautiful, it's beautiful."

Jaskier would be in his element with this. This symphony of colour clinging to life like a halo. Yen too. She had an eye for beauty, even if her tastes were more understated.

And both of them were out there, alone with Istredd. Alone with whatever else might stalk the silent lochside hills by the full moon's light...

He had to find them. But how?

_Yen, can you hear me?_

He felt a flurry of something when he thought of her – but fleeting and flimsy and far too intangible.

And so forcing his mind to quieten, he stilled himself. Down to the blood pumping in his veins and his heartbeat, he stilled all sounds as low and slow as he could. And there he listened, stretching out into the night with his senses, trying to focus in on Yen's lilac and gooseberry scented presence...

But instead, he sensed something else – something far less ethereal. Something alive in his own ears.

A man's screams.

_Jaskier!_

And Geralt was stumbling to his feet at that, tumbling his way across the road and into the thicket of trees, battling nettles and ferns and thorn-filled bramble bushes – pushing forward up the steep hillside against the swirls of green light to find the source of those cries, before anything else in this phantom landscape could get there first...

He could hear Jaskier calling his name. Panicked, and desperate.

It was faint – carried to his ears on the cold wind that blew down the snowy mountain.

His friends must be still some distance away.

The witcher steeled himself, and tore up the mountainside...

The brambles and trees thinned out as the slope steepened and the snowdrifts deepened. And as the wind blew colder, those cries drew closer.

Jaskier was travelling fast. But he was still miles away up the mountain, his words faint and distant. 

Too far from Geralt's reach. 

_" – and fucking hell Istredd, it's right behind us!"_

Panic swirled in his mind.

What could he do to help Jaskier? And where was Yen?

_Yen, can you hear me? Tell me what's happening!_

_Geralt?_

He felt her mixture of emotions as she heard his call to her. Surprise. Relief. Fear. And something deeper. Something needier, which seemed to pierce through his mind completely and twist his senses sideways.

The world churned on its axis, and the rainbow veil of lights spiralled into a bright whiteness...

Like he was falling.

But then he was there, beside her, gazing at the flecks of pink in her purple irises as Yen stared back at him in disbelief.

"Geralt. You're here."

For indeed he was. And she was safe.

"Hmm. You're alright?"

He was stood in three feet of snow on the summit of the mountain overlooking the loch, with wind whipping wildly through his hair. He should have been cold, but she was standing so close and she was so beautiful in the moonlight...

She was dressed differently from in the cottage – wearing a long black dress and a grey fur-trimmed coat that he'd never seen before.

He reached his hand to her face.

"Did you...?"

She pointed down the hill.

"There was something chasing us, Geralt. Jaskier and Istredd are down there. We should find them."

The stab of fear prodded at his guts.

"I'll find him, Yen. You go back to the cottage – "

"No. I'll take you to him."

"Yen, no. There's no time to argue! You need to go and – "

She smiled at him, and took his hand.

"Let me show you, witcher."

And her hand seemed to burn within his, while the rainbow colours returned and melted into the white swirl of light before his eyes.

And when those colours settled into darkness, they'd rearranged themselves into a new landscape. Further down the hillside, on the edge of the tree line.

Just a few metres uphill from two men running ragged down the mountain slope – men he well recognised.

Jaskier was dressed in red now, standing out clear against the pure white snow. Still safe and sound.

The witcher marvelled at Yen's new power.

"How did you...?"

Yen squeezed his hand and smiled.

"I wished for Jaskier, Geralt. Just like I wished for you. And so, here we are."

"Hmm. What else can you do here?"

She shrugged and raised her hand.

As she stretched out her fingers, the men up ahead seemed to collide with some invisible barrier.

They stopped in their tracks, unsure – and turned round to see their friends.

"Geralt!"

Jaskier came bounding up in seconds, throwing himself at his witcher and sobbing with relief.

"Oh Geralt, it was horrible! It's been chasing us down the mountain!"

"It's okay now, Jask. I know what to do."

He patted Jaskier's back, meeting Istredd's eyes with a nod.

"I'm glad to see you, witcher."

"Hmm. Tell me what happened."

Further up the mountain, something roared. A blood-curdling cry, that made Jaskier freeze rigid in his arms.

"Oh, Yen! It's still there!"

"I'll try and draw it away again."

Geralt gave Jaskier a firm squeeze and turned away, drawing the silver sword from his back carefully.

"No, Yen. We stick together. We need to get back to the cottage. The three of you are dreaming right now, and you need to step back inside your sleeping forms to wake up from this."

Istredd was already starting a jog down the hillside.

"Well – come on then, what are you waiting for? That _thing_ is coming!"

And at the archaeologist's words, the thing came crashing through the tree line.

It was grey and humanoid, and the size of a double-decker bus, but that was all Geralt could make out. The thing was misty and its edges intangible, blurring out of focus when the witcher's eyes tried to study it. But he knew all too well what it was.

And the Big Grey Man of Ben Macdui was one monster he'd rather been hoping to avoid up here.

"It's a _fear liath mòr._ From the mountains. All three of you, go now!"

Kneeling low to dip his hand in the snow, the witcher cast the sign of Yrden.

The faceless grey mist roared in anger, as the sign's magical barrier encircled its feet, blocking its pursuit of the witcher.

He caught up with his friends in a matter of seconds.

"I don't know how long the sign will hold it. We need to get off this mountain!"

Beside him, Jaskier gave a mirthless laugh.

"This is even worse than that last mountain you had me climb! One minute the demon horse is running at us, the next minute we're being chased by a misty blob! Is it after Istredd's ring?"

The witcher stole a glance behind himself. The _fear liath_ was watching them and tearing up one of the nearby fir trees.

"No. It's after _you._ In this world, if you die here – you stay here. And become one of them."

Jaskier glanced back up the hill in fright.

"I'm not ready to die, Geralt! There's still so many songs I need to gift to the world."

A tree came hurtling at them through midair, stopped only by Yen's outstretched hand. It perched above them, hanging motionless for a second – before it twisted and fell back the way it came with a flick of the doctor's wrist.

An outraged roar echoed down the hill.

"My magic is stronger in this dream. Maybe I can portal us back to the cottage?"

The witcher considered.

"Let's try it. If we all hold hands, then we should all travel together. Just think of the cottage."

Yen stopped running and beckoned to Istredd.

"Istredd, come back here. Take my hand!"

The archaeologist came back, still eyeing the hillside fearfully.

"Has it stopped following us?"

Jaskier grabbed Istredd's hand and led him towards Yen.

"Not yet. But our dear Dr Vengerberg has a cunning plan."

Geralt took a hand from each of his lovers, and stared at Yen's purple eyes.

"Are you ready?"

She closed her eyes, and Geralt felt the familiar feeling of falling through bright white light – and suddenly stood dazzled and dizzy in the snowy garden by the giant snowman.

Relief surged through him.

"It worked."

But the relief was short-lived. 

For in the darkness by the front door to the cottage, something growled.

And before the witcher’s very eyes, the largest hound he'd ever seen flowed out from the shadows and stood snarling at his little band of humans. 

The dog was black, with eyes as big as saucers that glowed crimson with malice. And its body was far bigger and broader than that of a horse.

He'd seen the occasional Black Dog in the leafy country lanes of England before – and at times those apparitions chose to be benevolent to strangers. But this menacing vision was not Padfoot – following lost and lonely travellers over the Lancastrian moors to keep them out of danger – nor even Old Shuck – haunting the churchyards and lichways of rural East Anglia.

This was their savage Scottish cousin. The sharp-toothed and murderous _cù sidh,_ said to be the lead hunting dog of the devil himself.

The witcher raised his silver sword and the hellhound paused, staring ready to leap.

"All of you, get behind me. We'll get in through the back door."

Jaskier was clutching at Yen, staring at the ghostly beast in fearful fascination.

"I've uh...heard about _these_. Never thought they'd be _large_ – as large as this, though."

The hound watched every step they took with an evil intelligence, and Geralt couldn't shake the sudden feeling it was herding them into a trap.

For it let them follow the path around to the back door without springing – seemingly held at bay by the gleaming silver sword that Geralt kept trained on the dog's throat.

But yet, it made no move to attack.

It made the witcher worry he was missing something.

He would surely be able to bring the beast down with his silver, but it would take time to die, and the thought of those cruel teeth – long and yellow and curved like steak knives – tearing into the flesh of one of his friends was not a risk he could take.

If any harm befell those three out here, then here they would remain.

But they were so close now. Istredd was almost within reach of the back door. A few more moments, and –

Something splashed in the dark loch water behind them.

Geralt didn't want to turn to look, didn't want to take his eyes off of the devil dog that was stalking them. But out of the corner of his eye he saw Jaskier at his side – turning and smiling as if in a daze.

"Oh, hello. Isn't it a bit cold and uh – _dangerous_ out here to be... _laundering clothes?"_

The witcher chanced a glimpse at the lochside.

And there he saw a young woman – sitting on the rocks by the water's edge, watching them with tearful green eyes. Long auburn hair hung wild and loose around her face, and she was scrubbing something white against the rocks.

A shirt. But... it wasn't fully white. 

It was bloodstained.

The witcher shivered.

"Get in the house, quick."

Istredd opened the back door, and jumped through the threshold, with Yen hard on his heels.

The woman watched in silence as the two of them entered the cottage.

And then – staring Geralt right in the eye – she began to sing.

_"Air leabaidh làir chan fhaigh mi tàmh,_

_'S air leabaidh àird cha chuir iad mi."_

[ _On a low bed I get no rest,_

 _on a high bed they will not set me._ ]

The sound was magical, haunting. 

And in his mind's eye, Geralt saw a vision of deep cold water, glinting in the moonlight with the promise of dark and deathly secrets.

It was only Jaskier's hand on his back that brought him to his senses. He'd been wandering over to the water's edge.

"What are you doing, Geralt? We need to _go!"_

The witcher shook his head, but the singing had stopped.

"Didn't you hear that?"

"Of course I heard that. That's why we need to go!"

The witcher stared back at the woman, who was rising to her feet now – rising to pat the head of the monstrous black dog, who whined in greeting at her feet.

The woman smiled indulgently.

_“Cò mo bhalach math a tha ann?"_

[ _Who's my good boy?_ ]

And Geralt felt a shudder run through him as the woman – still smiling, still beautiful – caught his eye again. But her tear-filled eyes were cold and hard like green glacial ice as she sized him up.

Before her eyes slid to Jaskier, still right beside him.

And then the woman's eyes shone fairy-green with greed, and Geralt felt his head spin.

"She was _singing_ to me, Jask."

"Yeah. And she uh... she seems to be on good terms with the local barghest. Is that... _a good thing?"_

But the woman cocked her head to the side – evidently following their exchange.

And when she spoke, her voice was soft with sadness.

"Geralt of Rivia, you have come a long way from home. What brings _a witcher_ to the lonely shores of my loch?"

The witcher stared back, lowering his sword arm and feeling Jaskier clinging to his other shoulder.

"Hmm. I'm _collecting_ my friends. They were taken here by mistake."

But the woman laughed.

"But they're not all of them just your _friends_ , are they?"

He didn't like the insinuation in the woman's voice. Didn't like the hungry way she looked at Jaskier.

And she'd sung her song at him! What could that mean?

Geralt shrugged.

"We didn't mean to disturb you or your... dog. We'll be on our way now."

The woman's face darkened.

"You walk away from me now and the loch's curse will take you both. Your weapons and violence will not save you from the water's desires, _witcher."_

Something roared at the front of the house, and Jaskier jumped in fright.

"Oh gods Geralt, it's the... _thing!"_

The woman nodded, watching as the big grey man came lumbering into view – blocking off any chance of escaping into the front garden.

She shook her head.

"And neither can your witcher signs defeat the strength of my magical company. There is only one way out for you."

"Hmm. And what might that be?"

The woman tilted her head to look at the bloodied shirt, still drifting lifelessly in the water. She did not look at him as she spoke, but just stared down at the empty, billowing sleeves.

 _"_ The same thing it always is, witcher. A sacrifice. A _choice._ You must choose which one you lose. Choose which of your true loves stays here with me. Forevermore."

He heard Jaskier's sharp intake of breath, and fought the urge to wrap his arms around the musician's shoulders in protection.

For that was not the way to protect Jaskier – not from a being such as her. He needed to think, to reason.

But anger flared in his heart – an anger mixed with horror, for he knew he'd heard her fairy song. And he knew well what the rules were, with her kind. In this place.

The _sidh_ were the most powerful of all the hidden people, and their elemental magic was no match for his own.

But nonetheless, this was a battle that the woman would not win. He could not let her win. Nobody would take his Jaskier or his Yennefer away!

" _No._ You will not have either of them."

The woman – the _caoineag_ – just stared.

"If you will not choose, then the curse will _take_ the one that stands here before me. _Your Jaskier."_

Geralt growled – earning himself a sharp glare from the giant black dog lying at the caoineag's feet.

"You will not take him while I still draw breath."

The witcher raised the silver sword, and the hellhound snarled and sprung to its haunches – crouched and ready to leap with its slavering jaws wide open.

The caoineag shook her head, waving a hand to still the beast. And with her finger pointed straight at Geralt, she sang her melancholic melody once more.

_"Mi 'n diugh 's an dé air cnoc lean fhéin,_

_A' sileadh dheur 's mi turaman."_

[ _Today and yesterday alone on a hillside,_

 _Shedding tears and rocking myself in grief._ ]

And Geralt felt the flicker of dread deepen in his heart – like a cold ocean tide leaking death in its wake.

Her song. It _was_ death.

She'd sung her song now, for Jaskier. And there was no power the witcher had to undo that fairy spell. No power in the world to undo the curse of the moonlit loch water!

The caoineag had summoned his true love's death.

And no sooner had that awful thought passed through his mind, than the hopeful sound of an opening door came from behind him.

_Yennefer._

Her doctor’s voice was unimpressed.

"Why are you two still out here with the caoineag? Come into the cottage now!"

Geralt shook his head.

"She's sang at me, Yen! She wants to take Jaskier."

Yen's footsteps crunched across the icy pathway, right up to Jaskier's other arm – which the purple eyed doctor grabbed possessively.

"Over my dead body."

The caoineag raised an eyebrow.

"Don't tease the waters, witch. They will hold you to your words – so idly spoken."

Yen raised her hand, and Geralt felt the buzzing in his mind as her powers spun through the rainbow veil like a shadow vortex.

"Leave my boys alone!"

The power was released, and Geralt sensed the pane of reality freeze around him – the atomic clock of time spun down to the smallest slide of entropy. For all the eternity that lay within this place. 

Except for Yen and her lovers – outside her spellcast.

"Into the house, right now!"

Yen pointed the way, and Geralt readied to move, feeling Jaskier beside him turn to run.

He would let them go first. He would wait until they were both inside the house, and stand his ground like a witcher –

But a shrieking wind rose up from nowhere and froze his feet to the spot. The rainbow lights in the sky failed and died.

And out on the loch, a crashing boom echoed from the depths of darkness and Geralt put his hands to his ears, on instinct – screaming over the din even as Yen froze mid-stride.

The caoineag sighed sadly.

"Away with your trickery, witch. Your magic is no match for theirs."

And in an instant, Yennefer was gone – vanished into thin air as the howling wind died down.

Jaskier blinked.

"What did you... where is she?"

The caoineag sat back down on her rock with a shrug.

"Your witch is quite safe. Back in your world. I must say, she's not really my type. Rather you than me, witcher."

Geralt just stared.

If Yen couldn't save Jaskier, with all her magic – then what was left to try? 

Only violence.

He would have to fight her then. This woman – and her monsters. He didn't want to, but what choice did he have? 

But his lover's arm stroked soothingly down his back, and a warm hand found his own, and squeezed.

And Jaskier, as if about to set out on stage, took a deep breath – and smiled warmly.

"A Mhairead, tha do ghuth.. _glè_ shnog!"

[Mairead, your voice is... _very_ lovely!]

The caoineag blinked in surprise.

"A bheil thusa _Gàidhlig_ agad, a Jhaskier?"

[You can speak Gaelic, Jaskier??]

The musician smiled, and nodded.

 _"Tha._ But, I'm afraid old Geralt here doesn't. He barely speaks English, actually – you wouldn't _believe_ the bother I've had extending his repertoire beyond the usual witchery grunts and clicks."

The caoineag sniffed.

"Oh, I _believe_. But how did you come to speak our language? You are not Scottish. Not Irish. Were you enchanted by a fairy?"

Jaskier grinned. He was warming to his performance now, Geralt could see.

Did he not understand the danger he was in?

"No, I'm not. But I am a bard. I've studied the songs of all seven Celtic languages! If music is a language, then she speaks to me with a Gaelic soul, my dear."

Geralt grimaced, in spite of himself.

Was Jaskier seriously trying to chat up the caoineag? Did he really think flattery and charm could break her curse, where Geralt's silver and Yen's sorcery could not?

The caoineag seemed suspicious too.

"Is that so? Well then, _bard._ You understand the words to my song. But understanding will not save you from the waters. This song has a power on all who hear it. The power of the _sidh_ is upon its words – no matter whether you have a Gaelic soul or a musical ear, _mo bhalach_ dear _."_

Jaskier nodded, staring at the dark loch water with a trained blankness on his face.

"And what power is that, my dear?"

Geralt looked at the water, mirror-flat and lapping in silver tongues as the gentle currents caught the moonbeams falling silently down from the starry sky. The clouds had disappeared, and the full moon's light cast deep black shadows on the snowy landscape, while the wafting rainbow hues drifted past.

The caoineag smiled sadly.

"The power to drown you, and steal away your love forevermore. For when you're surrounded by the blackness at the bottom of the loch, Jaskier, you will not remember the light nor notice the darkness."

Geralt could stand it no longer.

"You cannot have him. You _cannot._ "

He wrapped his arms around Jaskier, pulling him close, and holding the silver sword out to defend his lover. None of these monsters would take his friend into the water. None of them would come anywhere near him.

The caoineag laughed, and from behind – close to the door, hooves clattered on the pathway.

Geralt turned in horror and saw the red-eyed horse – the eight-legged bringer of souls to the underworld. It had returned here – it had been summoned.

It had come for Jaskier, to take him far away.

The pair of them were surrounded.

The caoineag saw Geralt's anguish and shook her head.

"The water commands me, witcher – I have no free choice. And the depths of the loch are always hungry for human souls. The _sidh_ will always have their way."

Geralt shook his head, watching the nightmare trot up to Jaskier. The creature lowered its head and whinnied, and to his shock – Jaskier began to mount the beast.

"No, Jask – what are you doing? Stay with me!"

There was panic on Jaskier’s face, shining clear in the moonlight.

"I can't help it, Geralt! Something is making me..."

Of course. A spell. Jaskier was spellbound. But his witcher wasn’t...

Geralt lifted his sword to slash at the horse's neck – but instead of cutting through flesh, when the silver blade made contact with its mark – the sword he held just shattered into tiny pieces, like broken glass destroyed on a concrete floor.

"Fuck!"

Jaskier laughed on top of the horse, shaking his head.

"Geralt, I know you're a witcher – but please just stop. Stand back before you hurt yourself."

"But the horse – "

Jaskier shook his head again, and spoke so very softly to him. As if there were no one else in the world but the two of them.

"The spell isn’t set until she finishes her song, Geralt. There's still time."

The caoineag obviously had heard them.

"And are you ready for the song's ending, _a Jhaskier?"_

The musician nodded, saying nothing.

And the caoineag closed her eyes, and lifted her voice to the black starry skies.

_"O Rígh nan dùl cum rium mo chiall,_

_Cha robh mi riamh 's a' chunnart seo."_

[ _Oh King of the elements preserve my reason,_

 _I have never been in such peril as this._ ]

The caoineag took a pause, taking in a last breath of air before singing her binding verse.

And the black horse pawed at the snow – ready and waiting for the final lyric – the magical cue that would send it leaping straight into the dark water with Jaskier on its back to drown Geralt’s lover in the depths of the loch.

The witcher tried to lunge at the horse again, but he was frozen, helpless – held under the hideous fairy spell with no way to move.

But still he could speak.

" _Jaskier – "_

And Jaskier was taking a deep breath too, taking his last breath –

One last breath before he began to sing.

In a deeper, lower tone than that of the caoineag, but one warmer and infinitely more beautiful to Geralt's ear.

Because Jaskier sang in a voice filled with love and light, not death and darkness.

**_"A Mhairead òg, 's tu rinn mo leòn,_ **

**_'S tu dh'fhàg fo bhròn 's fo mhulad mi."_ **

**[ _Young Mairead, you are the cause of my wound,_**

**_It is you who have left me stricken and desolate._ ** **]**

The caoineag shook in surprise at Jaskier’s words, just as an evil shriek came from the depths of the dark waters and echoed round the shore.

The fairies were not amused at being bested at their own game – but they had been – without a shadow of a doubt.

The rainbow lights in the sky glowed brighter above the trees and the darkness fled from the witcher’s sight.

And the witcher was ready now – he was able to move. The fairy curse of the _sidh_ had been broken.

The horse that Jaskier sat upon reared up on hind legs and threw its rider to the ground.

Geralt lunged for him, catching the musician before he could be hurt upon the frozen earth.

"Jaskier!"

But his lover just smiled in his arms.

"I'm fine, Geralt. It's alright now."

And the witcher looked to see the rainbow colours swirling out towards the lochwater – streaming far out into the middle of the loch.

And that was not all.

The devil dog shrunk in size to that of a little black spaniel, and barked in excitement as it ran in circles and chased its tail.

The dark horse shrank into a chestnut mare, shedding four of its legs and running towards the grey faceless mist – which was no mist anymore.

Instead a handsome young man stood there by the water’s edge, seemingly puzzled. He was dressed in a tartan kilt and wore a pure white shirt of the finest linen, with not a single blood stain there to be seen...

The caoineag cried out.

_"Sheamus!"_

The man came running over to her, gripping her as tight and kissing her as hard as Geralt gripped and kissed his Jaskier.

The witcher let his lover find his feet, still holding him close enough to whisper in his ear.

"You broke the curse. How the fuck did you do that?"

Jaskier pulled away with a grin.

"I'm Britain's greatest bard, Geralt. And my singing is magic. How could you ever think I'd lose a song contest with a _ghost?”_

The wheels in Jaskier’s brain spun faster than Geralt could process. For his lover’s grin had turned now to a frown of slight outrage.

"Wait a minute – Geralt, are you trying to tell me you thought Mairead’s singing was better than _mine?"_

The witcher raised an eyebrow.

"Hmm. I've not heard you hit her kind of high notes since you found that spider in your shoe."

Jaskier glared.

"That wasn't a spider! That was an eight-legged devil-spawn sent to kill me with a bite!"

Geralt pulled his lover closer, calming the musician’s outburst.

"Maybe you should have tried to seduce it too then. Maybe you don't need me."

Jaskier pouted and sighed.

“Geralt... ”

The musician opened his mouth to speak, but a flash of white light made them both stare into the loch.

The rainbow hues had knitted together into a shimmering staircase – a stairway to heaven of sorts, and the chestnut mare was galloping upwards, with the tartan-clad man and the auburn-haired woman on its back.

And young Mairead MacFarlane turned back freely with her little dog in her arms and blew a kiss at Jaskier with a smiling wave, as all the rainbow colours disappeared in the twinkling of an eye.

Jaskier shook his head and shivered.

"Of course I need you, Geralt. Come here and kiss me, then let's find Yen. She'll be worried sick."

So the witcher drew the musician close and kissed him with all the passion he'd kept concealed since he'd first heard the caoineag’s song. A kiss of relief. Of renewal.

"Let's get out of here, Jask. Let's get Yen. And let’s get you out of those clothes."

His musician smiled.

"I always knew you were my number one fan, Geralt. Admit it, you _loved_ my singing!"

The witcher grunted, grudgingly.

"Hmm. It has its moments. Definitely more filling than pie this time."

And so Geralt scooped a beaming Jaskier up in his arms, and carried his lover safely through the cottage doorway and away from the knowing gaze of the bright white moon as it sailed serenely through the midnight skies. 

And all the while, the faintest rainbow veil shimmered on through the high moonlit clouds flitting past the midwinter stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Gaelic song lyrics in this chapter are actually from a real Scottish folk song, A Mhairead Òg, which is a lament to a lost young lover who has died (and died at the hand of the singer, as a matter of fact – due to a horrible freak accident that was spitefully arranged by the singer’s mother who disapproved of their budding romance!). It’s a very beautiful old song that’s heavy on the melancholia, and there’s a particularly lovely version sung by Joy Dunlop available on YouTube here if you’re interested in such things: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O15hy4XCUWk


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well guys, welcome to the last chapter of this festive-themed fic – and there’s a nice happy ending for all these characters up ahead.
> 
> Just to warn you though: this is like mega sugary sweet in places (except for where Lambert is being a prick, obviously), so maybe have toothbrush and mouthwash on standby! It’s also pretty long, clocking in at like 7K words. As you may have guessed, some of it was meant to be posted yesterday – but, well, it was Hogmanay and (being Scottish) I was kinda honour-bound by ancestral traditions to drink my own bodyweight in both prosecco and whisky. I hope you all have a better head today than I do! :)
> 
> So thanks for reading this all of you, and happy new year! 
> 
> Or as the fairies would no doubt say – bliadhna mhath ùr... :)

**Six months ago**

It had started out as a normal summer morning, driving back from his overnight contract in the Kent countryside.

It was all bright and sunny – a perfect Saturday to sit on Clapham Common with a book and a picnic. To meet friends for a beachside barbeque on the warm sands at the Sussex coast and listen to the gulls cry. Or stroll through a grassy meadow near Norwich and watch the white fluffy clouds rise up on the hot air, side by side with someone secretly beloved.

But he tried not to dwell on the past. He wanted to get home to Yen. She'd sounded strange on the phone earlier on. Nervous, almost – but Yen was never nervous.

Something was different today, he could feel it in the air. Something was coming to the boil, changing, and he didn't like it. For he had no idea yet whether the incoming shift would prove friendly or ill. And the weather was threatening to burst.

It had grown steadily sultrier as the morning wore on, and he'd been looking forward to getting home. Getting out of the over-heated car and drinking a cold beer in the garden with Yen, before the heat wave broke in a storm of thunder.

She'd told him to expect _company_ when he returned. But when he'd asked who was coming she'd only giggled and hung up.

And now he had parked up and arrived, and no one had come out to greet him. He'd wandered through the house, and at first it had seemed to him that no one was home.

But then his eyes had saw the open door to the back garden, and his ears had made out a laughter coming from out there – a laughter that he recognised from his dreams.

A man's laughter that he'd missed, for eighteen long months.

He'd strolled through the open door, heart thumping already.

But the sight of them together on the grass made him stop dead in his tracks.

Yen – and Jaskier.

Both of them. Together. _Really_ together – both scantily clad in the afternoon heat. Oblivious and uncaring to the rest of the world's watchful judgement.

Yen raised a hand to wave at him, but didn't take her lips away from Jaskier's. The musician was pinned to the ground beneath her, his hands on her hips and his eyes closed. He was obviously loving every minute of it. He didn't even seem to realise that Geralt was there.

_Don't you like what you see, witcher?_

He heard Yen's knowing laugh as she sensed his wordless reply, but she had the good grace to turn her face to him and look him in the eye.

"Fancy joining us on the grass, Geralt?"

And Jaskier's eyes locked on his then, and Geralt found he couldn't stop staring into all that blue. Into those wide blue eyes filled with more feeling than Jaskier's voice when it broke on a love song. 

(On one of his own love songs. But for all the lovers Jaskier enjoyed, his songs were always about unrequited love, weren't they?)

And Jaskier's voice was soft and low as he spoke.

"Hello, Geralt."

They were both looking at him now, both watching him ever so intently. Eyes of purple and eyes of blue. It was dizzying, trying to tear his eyes between them.

They were waiting for him to react. Waiting for him to do something.

And then he saw their eyes widen. Realised his own eyes were leaking. Tears, falling from his own golden eyes.

Those tears unshed for years were escaping now, and he was too confused to stop them. Didn't want to stop them – wanted them to carry on while he watched, so he could enjoy the sight of them and not have to say anything that would break the spell...

His mind found something to hold onto, in the chaos.

His daughter. As always.

"Where's Ciri? Is she home?"

Yen rolled her eyes and sat up.

"Your brothers took her for some training down in Brighton. Drowners at the beach. Easy money for her. She'll be back tomorrow night."

Jaskier was sitting up too now, a blush on his cheeks – and a sharp glint in his eye.

"Uh, Yen told me you agreed to this, Geralt. Is that true? Did you agree to this?"

Geralt stared at Yen, and saw the nervous edge to her smile now.

_Don't ruin this, Geralt. If you drive him away now you'll never get him back._

He blinked. Nodded blindly.

And Jaskier seemed to relax.

Geralt took a deep breath. Wiped all evidence away from his eyes.

"What else did she tell you?"

Jaskier's mouth fell open, and he looked to Yen for support. As if they were friends. A team.

When had this ever happened? Last time he'd seen them together, they'd fought like cat and dog.

But Yen had just shrugged.

"I told Jaskier how much you missed him, Geralt. How you haven't been yourself for the last eighteen months and everyone – even Ciri – is worrying about you."

She ruffled her hand through Jaskier's hair, considering her words.

"You need your bard. You both need each other. And I need _you_ to be there for Ciri. So in a way, I need your friend here too. Your very _talented_ friend. Maybe we three need each other. Maybe we can come to some _arrangement._ "

Geralt felt a heat in his stomach at the way she pronounced so easily these impossible words. The impossible possibilities she conjured with that drawled out suggestion.

He took a step closer, drawn to the enticing and impossible idea.

"Jaskier..."

The musician just blinked back miserably, until Yen patted his shoulder and jumped to her feet.

"I'm going to mix us all a drink. You two need a moment alone. _Remember_ what I said."

She squeezed Jaskier's shoulder and fixed him with a look stern enough to make the musician flinch.

Geralt heard her warning echo around his head long after she'd stormed past him and into the house.

_Don't fuck this up! He needs you._

He staggered towards where Jaskier sat on the grass, unable to take his eyes off the musician.

"Geralt – "

Jaskier's voice was tortured, pleading. It was heart-breaking.

"Jask, shh."

"She didn't tell you, did she? I can see it all over your face! Oh, I've been such a fool, Geralt. I'll go. I'll go now, and you'll never have to – "

The musician was fleeing from the grass, trying to get away as fast as he could.

Geralt caught him easily as he tried to stumble past. Caught his shoulders in his arms and pulled him close.

And before Jaskier could squirm loose, Geralt ran a hand through the musician's brown hair, a soothing and calming sound on his lips.

"Shh. It's okay, Jask. Please stay. It's all okay."

Jaskier tilted his head to meet Geralt's gaze.

"It is?"

Geralt smiled back.

"It is."

Jaskier's teary eyes were wide with questions.

"You want me to stay?"

Geralt shook his head.

"Stay, go. Whatever you want, Jask. I just want _you."_

Jaskier's voice was doubtful. Sad.

"But you never called me, Geralt. Not once. You have everything you want here with Yen."

Geralt shook his head.

"Not everything. Not you. She's right, Jaskier. She's always right. I need you. I've missed you. And I'm sorry – so sorry. I should have told you how I felt years ago."

Jaskier trembled in his arms, blinked back tears.

"And how did... How do you, uh..."

Geralt cradled Jaskier's face in his hands, meeting his friend's eyes full on.

"I loved you, from the moment I saw you. And... I'm in love with you still."

Jaskier shook, his mouth hanging open in surprise.

"You..."

Geralt watched as Jaskier's lower lip wobbled, and brushed his hand down the musician's cheek. Jaskier tilted his head, closing his eyes and leaning his mouth against Geralt's hand – brushing his lips against Geralt's fingers.

"Fuck, Jask – "

Jaskier's eyes flew open. As wide as the sky with hope. And as deep as the ocean with longing.

"Show me, Geralt. Make me believe you."

And with a shuddering breath, Geralt had leant in to offer Jaskier what they'd both waited on for so long. And when it came – when he felt the soft warmth of Jaskier's lips press gently against his, he immediately knew just what had changed this time.

Everything.

The world was suddenly a crazier place, for he felt more alive than he ever had. There was a brief second where Jaskier's lips broke away and trailed warm breath against his ear...

The musician's murmur was sweet and soft, a confession given to him alone.

"Oh, Geralt – you have no idea how much I've _longed_ for you to say that."

And when Jaskier's mouth returned to his the musician was more aggressive. Hungry. Ready to devour Geralt there and then – and wouldn't it be divine to let him try –

Yen found them still entwined in the garden, oblivious to the distant rumble of thunder and the hazy cloud spreading over the sky.

She shook the pitcher of Margarita and let the glasses clink on the tray she carried out.

"Well, that didn't take you long. Just seventeen years! You both must be ready for a stiff drink after all that sad man-pining, so I mixed up our bard's favourite."

Jaskier broke free from Geralt's lips, fixed him with a dazzled smile that made Geralt's heart hurt, and groaned at Yen.

"You're a legend, Dr Vengerberg. How could I ever have doubted you?"

Yen placed the tray on the grass and poured herself a large measure from the pitcher.

"Because the two of you together is like stupid squared. Face it, boys. You both need me. I'll let you thank me later when you can tear your eyes off each other and you've lost those soppy grins."

Geralt released his grip on Jaskier, allowing the musician to flop onto the grass beside Yen and the cool draw of the cocktail mixture.

He crouched down beside them both, placing a hand on each of their knees.

"And can we have you, Yen. Both of us? Did you mean what you said earlier?"

The purple eyes of Yennefer Vengerberg glittered slyly.

"It will be rain tonight. Let it come down, that's what I say, gentlemen."

Jaskier grinned.

"Macbeth, act three? I've got to admit, Yen – I never took you as a _lady of the theatre_. More like a Lady Macbeth to Geralt's Hamlet."

Yen raised an eyebrow.

"Charming, aren't you? I always saw you as a Mark Antony to his Caesar. But without such... physical prowess."

Jaskier shook his head.

"Then you have a lot to learn about me, Yennefer – because you couldn't be more wrong. About the physical prowess, I mean. Obviously."

Geralt watched them both, seeing the blush on Jaskier's face deepen as Yen slid her hand up his thigh.

"Glad to hear it, professor. I've heard lots of stories about you. I've heard you get around. I'm sure all that vast educational experience must have taught you something useful to a practical-minded woman just like myself."

"Oh, I'm more than just an academic, Dr Vengerberg. I'm good with my hands too."

Yen squeezed Jaskier's knee.

"I'm sure you are. But will you be good on the end of a leash?"

Jaskier nearly choked on his drink, and Geralt patted him on the back.

"It's okay, Jask. She's only joking."

And with a smile, Yen offered a glass to Geralt, and raised hers in a toast.

"To new beginnings, gentlemen. And here's to Professor Pankratz's lessons on his famous physical prowess."

Geralt huddled closer to Jaskier, and slipped an arm around the man's waist before he could protest.

"Whatever you’ve shown Yen, I'm looking forward to those lessons too, Jask. And I have been – ever since I met you. But you knew that, didn’t you?"

Jaskier frowned and stared at the grass.

"I always hoped so, Geralt. But I never thought this day would come. Not now. Not after all this time. You have your family. You don't need me."

Geralt sighed, pulling Jaskier towards him to plant a kiss on his forehead.

"I've always needed you. But it's going to be different now, Jask. Everything is going to different."

The musician licked his lips, and smiled shyly through his eyelashes.

"I hope so, Geralt. But let's see how it goes."

The thunder rumbled in the sky at that, and Yen grinned and pointed to a flicker of lightning nearby.

"Seems like we should move this party indoors, boys. And away from prying eyes. The manicured gardens of London city are not ready for the three of us."

"Hmm. Can't imagine anywhere is."

"Oh, Geralt! You're so provincial. Did I never tell you about that time Célie de Bourbon took me to that Monaco brothel? The one with all the giraffes...?"

And as the rain began to pour down – hard enough to save the tender human ears of Hammersmith from hearing the end of Jaskier's story – the three of them had hurried into the house. Together. All of them had been unsure what the future held in store, but all three of them were certain that what they were about to do was right.

And Geralt felt like he'd really, truly – for the first time in years – come home to the full family that he'd always wished to find. 

Something really had changed. And he had a feeling it just might be the best change of his life.

*** *** ***

It was a happy step over, back into the threshold of the house. He took it with Jaskier held tight in his arms, and a tremor of relief at the back of his mind.

Why was there always some danger to face? Some drama?

He was tired of drama. What if one day they were not so lucky? What then?

He would never let either of them go. Not Yen or Jaskier. And he would fight untold hordes of demons with his bare hands before he would surrender either of them to any monster's clutches.

Geralt stepped back into the shadowy hallway and away from the moonlit snows – away from the gaudy Christmas colours of the technicolour lochside. His eyes had taken their fill of rainbow lights, and right now, he had eyes only for Yen and Jaskier.

But of course, Istredd had made it back too. 

If only the caoineag had taken a shine to the archaeologist instead. The fairy curse may have been left unbroken by Jaskier's song, but his witcher's Yuletide peace might have been worth the scholar's sacrifice.

"Geralt, you made it back!"

The archaeologist was sat on the bed with his arm around Yennefer's shoulders – and somewhat of a sheepish grin across his face.

Yen shook him off immediately and ran to her true loves.

"Jaskier, you bastard – you had me so worried!"

Geralt set their bard down to let Yennefer kiss his face with a viciousness born of fear – a fervour which Jaskier seemed to relish fully, murmuring at her between kisses.

"I was with our witcher. I wasn't worried."

Geralt kissed into his bard's hair.

"I was. Fuck, Jaskier. How did you know?"

But the uneasiness died on his lips as those blue eyes stared back at him. Jaskier was grinning and waving his free hand – the one that wasn't missing it's chance to wrap around Yennefer's waist – with wide-eyed enthusiasm.

"Oh, Geralt! Everyone knows that old song! I've set essays on it for my Celtic music class. It’s a textbook case of the dual style of stanza repetition– "

Geralt shook his head.

“No. I mean... how did you know your singing would break the curse?”

And Jaskier – damn him – just shrugged.

“Oh, well – that was just an _educated guess_. That’s the kind of thing that happens in fairy tales, Geralt. A lover's lament sung by the water’s edge at Yuletide has as strong a power as any magic spell! Especially under a full moon’s light. The fairies go nuts for that kind of thing.”

Yen pinched him low enough and hard enough to make the bard hiss.

"Jaskier, are you telling me that you _outsung_ the caoineag? That you managed a more terrifying howl than a portent of doom that kills with a single note?"

Yen winced as Jaskier nipped back at her waist.

"I'm a portent of _art_ , my dear doctor. And art is a conduit for life itself. Maybe we can pick up where we left off earlier and I'll show you all the ways to make music so beautiful that the gods themselves weep with joy?"

Geralt threw Istredd a meaningful look and the archaeologist stumbled to his feet.

"I'll be off then. See you in the morning. If anything else attacks me in the night... I'll er.. I'll try singing it a song this time."

Jaskier nodded, as Yen tore his shirt free.

"If you need any back-up with those harmonies be sure to send it my way.”

The archaeologist shut the door, and the witcher pounced upon his two lovers, already so helpfully entwined between each other and stripping their clothes aside.

They did work so well together as a team.

And Geralt smiled, watching the shapes they made dance over the moonlit walls – beckoning to him.

"Now. Where were we?"

*** *** ***

The view of the loch was blanketed with snow when he awoke, still with Yen's face resting on his chest and Jaskier's arm wrapped around his waist.

The soft whiteness was pure and bright as he stared at his sleeping lovers. At Yen's black hair silky across his neck. And Jaskier's breaths coming soft and snuffling through pink parted lips.

It was glorious like this, and he didn't want to move and spoil how perfect they were beside him.

They were his. Each other's. The man he'd loved secretly for decades and the woman he'd needed at first sight. They were a team.

And today the star of that team would arrive.

He smiled at the thought of seeing his daughter again, and stared out at the crisp snow on the lochside. 

Ciri would be here soon. It was time to get up and find out where she was.

Leaving Yen and Jaskier to snore softly under the sheets, Geralt pulled on some clothes and padded to the kitchen to make tea.

While the kettle boiled, he set a tray with three mugs and a plate of biscuits, pointedly determined that the archaeologist could come and fetch his own food.Istredd was a fool, and he'd endangered two of the people Geralt loved most of all in the world.

He checked the phone in his trouser pockets and found a text from Ciri, sent hours earlier that morning.

_We’re leaving Edinburgh now, should be with you by 1pm. Did Yennefer and Jaskier drink all the wine? Don’t worry because we brought plenty more! Merry Christmas Eve Geralt xx_

He smiled down at the message, and considered. And with some initial reluctance, the witcher found a fourth mug for his tray.

It was Christmas after all. The first Christmas he'd spent with Yen and Jaskier together. And it meant a great deal to Ciri for everyone to get along – it meant a great deal to everyone.

They were all part of his daughter's family.

“Hmm.”

He poured the tea and set a second plate of chocolate biscuits to take in to the hapless archaeologist.

Istredd must surely be hungry after his night of running around the mountain top.

So with a sigh, Geralt paced down the hallway – remembering with a shiver the silver glint of the ring as it had sat under the moonlight on the window ledge – and knocked on the archaeologist’s door.

“Er... yes? Come in.”

Geralt came strutting through, and set the peace offerings down on the bedside table with a nod.

“Thought you might like a cup of tea.”

The pale blue eyes of the other man were wide with confusion, as if he suspected a trick. It made Geralt smile. A genuine smile.

“Well, thank you, Geralt. You are... not too tired? After all that drama last night?”

The witcher shrugged.

“Monster disturbs my sleep, abducts my lovers, threatens their lives. All in a day’s work for a witcher.”

The archaeologist nodded, taking a bite of a chocolate-covered hobnob.

“Well. In that case I’ll never complain about deturfing a site ever again. Yen and Jaskier though – I’m sorry Geralt. I didn’t think anyone would be at risk. I never would have put either of them in danger.”

The witcher stared at the window, frowning at where the ring had sat. He was still wearing the blasted thing.

With a glare, he peeled the silver band off his finger and returned it to the archaeologist.

“What will you do with it now?”

Istredd pointed with his cup towards a rucksack in the corner.

“I'll put it back in its box, Geralt. Where it belongs. Do you think it’s still dangerous?”

Geralt thought for a moment, then shook his head. His medallion was calm and silent.

“Not any more. The spell was broken. But... show it to Ciri later. See what she reckons.”

The archaeologist’s eyes lit up.

“When will she be here?”

Geralt smiled.

“One o’clock. I should go and tell the others.”

Istredd nodded.

“And I’ll take a shower – after my tea. Thanks for bringing it, Geralt. And Merry Christmas to you.”

The witcher nodded, and turned away.

It hadn’t been that hard, had it? Talking to him. He would have to do it more, especially when Ciri was around. He didn’t want her to think there were any bad feelings between any of them – and there weren’t.

Not really.

Not anymore.

Geralt took up the tray and set off for his room with a flourish.

Ciri would be pleased. And that was the main thing.

*** *** ***

In the end, it was only a little after one when Ciri finally arrived.

Geralt had been pacing by the window side, peering out at the snowy garden and hoping to hear the sound of Ciri's battered old Rover driving up the hill to the cottage, even over the gentle sound of Jaskier's guitar strumming.

Yen had laughed up at him, sitting on the couch with a bar of dark chocolate and a New England Journal of Medicine in her hand, using its pages to smack Istredd on the arm to signal that his tea-making duties were now overdue.

And as the archaeologist had succumbed to Yen's eloquent demands, the first rumblings of an engine had reached Geralt's ears – and then the witcher was already on his way to the front door, eager to see his daughter after her first term away at university.

The car pulled up in the driveway beside his own, and Ciri bounced out of the driver's seat to help her girlfriend with her bags.

"Hi Geralt! Did we beat your brothers?"

Her long blonde hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, and her baggy blue coat was obviously still a favourite – the only difference to his daughter now was the supportive hand on her companion's shoulder.

Dressed in a red leather jacket and with jaw-length brunette waves – Geralt recognised the young woman from Ciri's photos.

He smiled at the pair of them.

"You did, but you had a clear advantage."

Ciri shrugged.

"Guess we did start off in the same country as you."

"Hmm. And you didn't have to listen to Lambert's directions. He's probably sent Eskel to Wales by now."

His daughter laughed, throwing her head back so her ponytail bobbed around.

"That's true! He's terrible with directions – and he never shuts up. Lucky for me I had someone smart in my car."

The brunette held out her hand to Geralt, staring out at him with smiling dark eyes.

"Hi, I'm Renfri. Ciri's navigator."

There was something foreign in the woman's voice. An accent Geralt couldn't quite place.

Ciri beamed as the two of them shook hands in the driveway.

"We met in halls. Renfri's on the same corridor as me. I proved my heroism by saving her from a wasp in the communal kitchen. I saved her bigos from boiling over too."

"Yes, your daughter is a hero Geralt. But like everyone else, she appreciates good Polish cooking. Especially with that swill they try to serve us in the residence cafeteria."

"It was love at first bite Geralt. And the bigos was really tasty too."

Both girls giggled, and Geralt smiled at his daughter's happiness.

"Well, if either of you want to give Jaskier a hand in the kitchen I'm sure he wouldn't mind. He's made a list of jobs to be done for Christmas dinner."

Ciri grabbed Renfri's hand and pulled her forward.

"Where is Jaskier? Did he bring his guitar?"

Geralt nodded to the doorway, seeing Yen hurrying out with Jaskier's coat flung over her shoulders. But there was no sign of the musician himself.

"He did. But there's a piano in the cottage. He said it was better for Christmas carols."

Yen reached their little party and grabbed her daughter into a tight hug.

"Ciri. Merry Christmas! And you – you must be Renfri? You must be freezing out here, so why don't you both come in and have some mulled wine? I put it on this morning."

So as the snow started falling, Yen led her family into the house and pointed out the cosy room that she'd picked out especially for the newcomers to share. Like her own room, her daughter's room was blessed with a loch view and an open fire. 

And after their luggage had been left on the bed to mark it as theirs (for if Lambert were to arrive before they'd unpacked he would undoubtedly try to steal the room for himself), Geralt watched as the young women were promptly ushered into the living room and sat down beside the crackling fireplace with mugs of warm spiced wine.

Istredd looked on fondly as Ciri talked about her classes and answered Yen's questions about all her new friends, but Geralt excused himself with a wave, feeling suddenly uncomfortable.

There was somebody missing here, and it wouldn't do.

Jaskier was in their bedroom, idly plucking the strings on his guitar while staring out at the snow falling on the frozen loch.

He stiffened at Geralt's hand on his shoulder.

"Why are you hiding away in here? Ciri's just arrived."

Jaskier stood still a moment, the music dying at his fingers.

"I'm not _hiding_. I just, wanted to give you some space, Geralt. For you all to catch up, you know? As a family."

Geralt shook his head.

"You're part of that family."

Jaskier's eyes dropped to the floor.

"That's nice of you to say. But – "

"But nothing."

Geralt lifted the guitar off Jaskier's shoulders, and placed it gently down on the bed – feeling the musician's eyes follow his every move.

And before his old friend could complain, he wrapped his arms around Jaskier's shoulders and kissed the musician until any thoughts of protest had been purged from memory.

Feeling Jaskier weaken, he broke away from the musician's lips and kissed the side of his neck.

"I love you. Yen loves you. And Ciri certainly loves you. You've been a part of her life for as long as I have, and your name might not be on her adoption letter, but she looks to you for support and she trusts in you. She needs you. You've always been her family, Jask. You've always been part of _my_ family. And I should have told you that years ago. I wish I had _."_

Jaskier was silent in his arms, and Geralt hoped that counted as a victory. 

The musician was twirling a lock of the witcher's silver hair around in his fingers, staring hard at the strands as if they held the meaning of life right before his eyes.

Geralt waited for him to speak. It wasn't like Jaskier to hold his tongue for long.

"No, Geralt. Don't wish your life away. We were happy, all those years. And I wouldn't change a second of any of them, because they brought both of us here. They brought us to this time and place, where I can tell you that I love you every single day. You and Yen. I can wake up beside you both, and know that you're as happy as I am."

Geralt nodded softly.

"As long as you know that you're wanted, Jaskier."

"And that you're _needed_ , professor."

High heels clicked across the floorboards as the scent of lilac and gooseberries filled the room.

Geralt didn't let Jaskier go – he stood there and let Yen wrap her arms around both of them, offering gentle kisses onto their necks.

"I'm missing my boys, gentlemen. Ciri is sitting laughing by the fireplace with her pretty young girlfriend, and it's making me feel old. Will you both come back to us? We need _you_ to keep us safe and _you_ to keep us smiling."

Jaskier clutched a hand to Yennefer's head and kissed her hair.

Geralt watched, squeezing both of them tight.

And when he finally broke free, Jaskier shook his head.

"I'm sorry, Yen. I was having...a moment. You're right. We should both come through now and see Ciri. I want to hear all her news."

Yen smiled.

"And she wants to hear yours."

But the look on Yennefer's face turned suddenly thoughtful.

"I could hear you both, this time, you know? I felt it when Geralt was comforting you, Jaskier. And before that – I could hear your thoughts. Just like I hear his."

Geralt shrugged.

"What does that mean?"

But Yen was just shaking her head, and leading them both towards the living room with a steady clomp of her heels.

"Maybe nothing. We can talk about it later."

Geralt's eyes met Jaskier's. They were as confused and full of questions as his own.

But in the living room, with the candles lit as the sky outside darkened with snow, the mystery was soon forgotten.

Ciri jumped up and threw her arms around Jaskier as soon as he entered the room, grinning ear to ear and asking him where he'd been.

"Composing, Ciri. Please forgive my tardiness, but I wanted to finish the lyrics to the song so I can sing it to you properly later."

Her green eyes lit up at the thought.

"Oh, will you? I was hoping you'd sing for us. I've been playing Renfri all your music, but it's always better listening to it live!"

Jaskier had nodded to Renfri, who'd stood up herself to clasp his hand.

"I saw the video of your St Cecilia's concert. Nice outfit."

And everyone had laughed except for Geralt – who'd stared around the room in delight, feeling that something new and exciting was somehow waiting in the wings. 

Some feeling of contentment at watching all of his beloved people finally enjoying themselves.

But his witchering had long taught him to listen to his instincts.

And he couldn't shake the feeling that something else was about to change...

*** *** ***

Before too long that afternoon, the sky had darkened and the snow turned to a blizzard. And as the storm worsened, the sounds of a clapped-out old van had come chugging up the hill, and Geralt had smiled in relief that his brothers had made it in time.

The appearance of Eskel and Vesemir was welcome – along with a red-faced Lambert who wasted no time in pouring himself a mulled wine and tucking into the cold mince pies that Yen had been waiting to warm in the oven.

The doctor shooed him away with a scowl.

"Out of my kitchen, right now. If any of you want anything you can ask me or Jaskier to get it. I don't want witchery fingers all over my mince pies!"

Jaskier had clarified.

"Ciri excepted, of course. And you, Renfri. You've proven yourselves suitably socialised to be trusted around our cake supplies."

Lambert had just laughed, and plonked himself down on the piano stool, trailing pastry crumbs all over the keyboard, much to Jaskier's horror.

"As you command, _ladies._ It's nicer over here anyway – like sitting at my own bar. Hey _miss_ – "

Lambert clicked his fingers at Jaskier.

" – Fetch me another mug of this then. Or on second thoughts, make it a nice cold beer. I need something to cool myself down after Eskel's driving. He went the wrong way down the motorway."

His older brother shook his head.

"It was you with the map! If Vesemir hadn't been there you would have taken us straight into Cardiff."

Geralt had raised an eyebrow at Ciri, who had giggled and pointed right at Lambert.

"Is that why you were so late then? You should know never to listen to Lambert."

Eskel had grinned in vindication as his younger brother spluttered on his mince pie.

"Mostly. We stopped off for coffee. And we stopped off in Balloch for some...supplies."

Geralt had noticed the way his brother's eyes drifted towards Yen, and the way she had quickly nodded and smiled almost anxiously.

"Thank you, Eskel. And do you have those supplies?"

Eskel had nodded, his face carefully neutral.

"Of course."

And without a further word, the older witcher had risen to his feet and followed behind on Yen's heels as she'd marched from the room.

Eskel must have been enlisted for some of Yen's last minute shopping, but it wasn't like her to be so forgetful. And whatever would she be buying in the shops by some tiny Loch Lomond village? 

Geralt watched her leave and felt Jaskier's hand on his shoulder.

He hesitated a moment, then pulled the musician down onto his knee, with an arm wrapped round the man's waist.

Vesemir caught Geralt's eye with a smile.

"I see you defeated the runes then. Did you have much trouble?"

Geralt shared a glance with Jaskier, and didn't know where to start.

"Hmm. It was a team effort, getting back."

Vesemir nodded, with the firelight glinting off his bright grey eyes as he raised an eyebrow at Jaskier.

"I see. Then it's a lucky job you have such a good team by your side, Geralt. Sometimes the path is a lonely one. But sometimes we're blessed to share it with others. It's a happy change to see you smiling for once. You too, Julian."

A blush appeared on Jaskier's face as he smiled shyly. Of all the people in the world, Vesemir was the only person Geralt had ever seen who made Jaskier look so tongue-tied.

"Thank you. I uh... didn't know what you would make of it. _Us._ I thought you would be... worried."

Vesemir raised a bushy brow.

"Worried? _Should_ I be?"

Jaskier nearly choked.

"Uh? No! No, I meant – "

But Vesemir was laughing already, a deep rumble that made Geralt smile and draw Jaskier close so he could kiss the man's head.

Vesemir's eyes sparkled in the flames.

"Why, who do you think it was that gave Yennefer her advice? She was worried about Geralt's brooding, and I knew instantly where the problem lay. And what the solution would be too."

Jaskier took in a deep breath, and Geralt found himself looking at his foster father with new appreciation. This wasn't a detail that Yen had ever mentioned before.

And Jaskier's voice had an incredulous squeak to it too.

"It was you that suggested... _us?"_

Vesemir looked pleased.

"Suggested? Yes. But let me assure you, Yennefer needed little persuading. And as it happened, Lambert ended up owing a week's wages to Eskel for all my trouble."

Geralt nearly spat out the mulled wine he'd been sipping.

"Lambert and Eskel took _bets?"_

Vesemir nodded thoughtfully.

"Oh yes. I was tempted to join in, but I didn't want Lambert to lose all his money."

Geralt shook his head, and felt Jaskier's stare of confusion.

Vesemir sat closer.

"Geralt, Julian – may I be frank?"

Geralt stared back reproachfully.

"When have you ever not been?"

Vesemir smiled.

"Never. A witcher should always be honest, Geralt. And you never were, not to poor Julian here. Not to Yennefer. You needed a good kick up the arse, stubborn mule that you are. I always knew how you felt – both of you. Everyone did. Everyone except the pair of you, apparently. So it was my fatherly duty to lead you back to the right path, Geralt. To keep our little family all together. And happily, it worked!"

Vesemir winked at Jaskier, and took a deep sip of his wine with a grin.

Jaskier took a deep breath, and smiled back.

"Well, thank _you,_ Vesemir! I'm touched, really. I had no idea that you and Yen were plotting against me, together. But I'm glad you did."

Geralt heard the note of relief in Jaskier's voice and hugged him tight – catching his foster father's eyes as they turned with a glint to Ciri and Renfri, still laughing by the fireside with Istredd as Lambert and Eskel argued the finer points of back seat driving.

Jaskier turned to him and placed a kiss on his cheek.

"Let's go and find Yen, Geralt. I want to speak to her."

Geralt nodded, and let Jaskier lead him by the hand to their bedroom, where Yen stood pacing by the fireside all on her own.

She looked startled as they came in, and Geralt frowned.

What was this? 

Yen was never anxious like this.

He stretched out his thoughts to hear her, but only caught the faintest traces of shock in her mind.

Jaskier cocked his head, noticing the same thing – and instantly he dropped Geralt's hand and reached an arm round Yen's shoulders.

"Yen, my love. Whatever is it?"

She accepted Jaskier's hug with a sigh and Geralt took her hand. Her eyes were wide in the firelight, but she approached something of her usual nonchalance when she met her lovers' eyes.

"I could say the same thing to you. Shouldn't you be mingling with everyone else?"

Geralt shrugged.

"We were just mingling with Vesemir."

Yen's eyes flashed with understanding, and a note of amusement crept back into her voice.

"Oh yes. And I bet he had some _fascinating_ stories to tell you."

Jaskier stroked his hand down Yen's arm, softly and slowly.

"Why didn't you tell us, Yen?"

Yen stiffened.

"I didn't want you to know."

Jaskier blinked in confusion.

"But why? It's not a big deal. Neither of us minds. Why the secrecy?"

Yen stared into the flames for a long moment, and Geralt met Jaskier's look of concern with his own.

Until finally she spoke.

"Because what Vesemir suggested that _we_ do was not what our original discussion was about. It was a solution he offered to a particular problem I had mentioned, and I didn't think it would work."

Jaskier frowned.

"You didn't think we would _work_? But..."

Yen sighed and shook her head.

"No, silly. Not _us._ I've known how you two feel about each other since forever, and I... came to sympathise with Geralt's perspective on _you_ , Jas."

She offered Jaskier a squeeze around his waist and the musician's blue eyes softened.

Geralt kissed the side of her face, running his fingers through her black hair and inhaling the sharply floral scent.

"What then, Yen? Tell us."

Yen closed her eyes.

"Vesemir had found an old book in the Caer Morhen library. He showed it to me. It was full of old spells. And – knowing about all our problems,Geralt – one had caught his eye. That's what we were discussing. The spell."

Geralt nodded, stroking the back of Yen's head.

"Go on."

She sighed.

"I didn't think it would work. It was a fertility spell."

Geralt's eyes widened, but he couldn't hear his thoughts over the sudden crash of his heartbeat.

Jaskier's voice was soft with sympathy.

"Oh Yen. You could have told us. You're not alone."

She shook her head.

"I couldn't."

Geralt gripped his hand on her shoulder, needing something to cling on to.

"Why not?"

She turned to him, as if surprised he hadn't already figured it out.

"Because you two not knowing was part of the magic."

Nobody said anything for a moment, and the only sound was the crackling and sputtering of the flames licking against the peat in the fireplace.

And finally the penny dropped.

Jaskier's eyes went saucer wide.

"You mean, it _worked?"_

Yen nodded. Smiled.

"It worked."

Geralt let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding.

Jaskier's mouth dropped open.

"Uh. And who is – who is the...?"

Yen took both of their hands in hers, interlocking the fingers of both of her lovers and staring into the flames.

"You both are. It's magic. Powered by a witcher's magic, and a man's fertility. Our child will be magical too."

Jaskier stared at Geralt and grinned.

Geralt kissed the side of Yen's face.

And Yen continued her story.

"I could only tell you when I knew the spell had worked. Eskel brought me a test from the local pharmacy. And now I know. So now I can safely tell you. You're not just fathers to my daughter. But you'll be fathers to my baby, too."

Geralt kissed Yen's neck.

"Does Ciri know?"

Yen smiled.

"Let's save it for Christmas Day. We can tell her together, in the morning. And then the others. But I wanted to tell you two. Give you some time to reach for the smelling salts if you're feeling faint."

Geralt grinned.

"I feel great, Yen. You know how I'd always hoped for this. And for Ciri to have a brother or sister."

Yen smiled dryly.

"Yes, but how is our bard holding up? Is the man of a thousand lovers ready for the impending joys of fatherhood?"

Jaskier shook his head, and placed a gentle hand on Yen's belly.

He smiled softly.

"I didn't ever think anyone would ever want me like that, Yen. To be a father to their child."

Yen shook her head.

"And why not? You've always been so good with Ciri. You've always made time for her, been there for her. You're already her father, Jas. And she loves you."

Jaskier nodded, and the glimmers in his eyes told Geralt that their bard was tearing up.

And suddenly, he felt the prickle of tears in his own eyes – and realised just what was changing this time.

They were home.

Even though they were miles away, in a cottage by a frozen loch and a snowy mountain far from the city streets of London – this was home. Right here. With these people he loved.

With his family. His daughter. His Yennefer. His Jaskier. And a new child to be a sibling to Ciri.

And without a doubt he knew, that this was going to be the best Christmas he would spend with them yet.


End file.
